Gay Harry Potter-06-2d-Noun and Adam
by jerome1980
Summary: Two amnesiacs escape from the loonie bin. One wants to be a fortune-teller, and the other to save someone called Neville Longbottom from being kidnapped or imperioused. Fate leads a good-hearted boy to the Nine O'clock Club.


GAY HARRY POTTER-06-2d-TALES FROM THE NINE O'CLOCK CLUB NOUN AND ADAM

_**1**_

He was Nothing, surrounded by Nothingness.

Not Nothing: Something, because Something was thinking the thought.

Who _was_ he? What was he _for_? What did he have to _do_? _Where_ was he?

Ten thousand years later, it came to him: he was in a _bed_; and the bed was in a _room_; in a _building_; in _Town_ or _Country_.

Another ten thousand years passed, and there were voices. He'd heard the voices before. He couldn't understand what they spoke about, but there were two words that often sounded, so they must be important: _Feeding_ and _Charm_.

The voices were good. They were from _People_—people who were keeping him _Alive_ and not _Dead_.

Another ten thousand years.

He was _Ill_, and in a _Hospital_; and his name was . . . name was . . ."

It was no use: he had no idea; but he knew that he had a _secret_—no, _two_ secrets; two terrible secrets.

There were more voices, and a new one sounded loud: "So! A muggle-born; still not Avare."

"Yes, Herr Professor."

"Have ze parents visited?"

"No, Herr Professor, the parents are not Aware."

"Zey must be _made_ Avare and brought here. Zeir voices vould be beneficial unt Terapeutic."

"The muggle Police have a nationwide hunt, and the Ministry insist that the boy be returned to the parents, and the muggles satisfied, before the parents are made Aware."

"So! Ze parents may be essential to ze cure, but your Ministry insists on a cure before ze parents are brought in."

"Yes, Herr Professor."

"Zey are fools like our own Germanic Ministry."

There was silence.

Then the English voice asked: "In the absence of the parents, can we take any additional steps, Herr Professor?"

"No. He must keep taking the potions, and ve vill have to vait unt see."

"And the prognosis, Herr Professor?"

"Difficult. It vas a gross Confundus fur a ten-year-old. He may be in unt out of coma; he may be whole or mad as your Ministry. If he comes round, you must vatch and control him carefully."

"Thank you, Herr Professor."

"Now, take me to ze voman who shouts fur ze bees."

"Certainly, Herr Professor, the bonsai apple tree inside her head is still healthy, but we thought it sensible to include a little bone-meal in her diet."

"Kvite so. Unt her legs retain a permanent Vy-formation?"

"Yes, Herr Professor, she is hoping to attract bees, but some of the male patients . . ."

The voices faded, and he thought about what they had said. He didn't like the Herr Professor, who was a self-important German. He didn't understand most of the things he'd said, but there was one thing he was certain of: he didn't want to be _watched and controlled_.

Then his eyes opened. There was no warning: One moment he was Nothing; and the next he was surrounded with curtains—not the curtain of blackness he was used to, but real curtains of solid, coloured fabric.

It was night, but he could see in the dimness—there must be night-lights.

Everything was silent.

He tried to move, and found that he could. He rolled to one side and the other, before sitting up in bed.

Carefully, he lowered his feet to the floor, and tried a few steps. He was a bit tottery at first, but became sure-footed after a few U-shaped strolls inside the curtains.

He stuck his head through the curtains. Yes, he was in a hospital. None of the other curtains were drawn, so he could see that he was in a ward of eight beds, and there were three other patients.

The night-lights weren't working very well, as things looked a bit blurry.

Two of the patients were asleep, but the man in the opposite bed made urgent _Go back!_ gestures, before pointing to the top of the ward.

A man was sitting reading there: the night-nurse, he thought with satisfaction: he might not know his own name, but he knew lots of other things.

He withdrew his head, and lay back on the bed. He was suddenly very tired, and went back to sleep.

Next morning he woke refreshed and alert.

They wanted to watch and control him, and he wasn't going to accept that, so he simulated unconsciousness, and spent the day thinking of things that he knew.

He counted to a hundred, and for some reason thought of the phrase: _Coming, ready or not!_

He could do Nouns, including _Nouns_ he thought with a chuckle, then freezing to make sure no-one had heard.

Chuckle. He had a sense of humour.

Nouns, Verbs, Adjectives, Adverbs, Pronouns, Conjunctions, Prepositions, Interjections, Particles. He was clever. Then why didn't he know his own name?

Two important Abstract Nouns came into his mind: _Good_ and _Evil_. He knew what they meant, and he knew he was Good, and never veered closer to Evil than _Naughty_.

As soon as things had settled down for the night, he investigated the bedside cabinet and wardrobe. There were clothes in the—was it a wardrobe or a closet? He felt a chill down his spine: _Coming out of the closet_ was a phrase full of fear and disgust.

In the cabinet, he found a pair of spectacles. Of course! His sight improved, and he could see clearly—it was a good job he'd found them before his escape.

During the next day, he tried to get some genuine sleep in, so that he would be vigilant during the night, and be ready to slip past the guard as soon as _he_ was asleep.

His plan failed, and he could not resist the call of Sleep when the night came.

He was woken by someone sitting on his bed. This would be the guard. Perhaps they could read minds here, or had he talked in his sleep?

He opened his eyes and sat up. It was not the guard, but the patient from the opposite bed.

He was a boyish-looking man of about thirty. He was handsome, with a spoiled-brat face, and hair that flopped appealingly over his forehead. He wondered if this was his father.

He was looking at him expectantly, waiting for something.

When he did not speak, the man whispered: "Well?"

He could find nothing better to whisper than: "Hello".

"I expect you find it overwhelming, being so close to me."

"Not at all . . . er." The man seemed to smell of nothing more overwhelming than soap.

"A cool customer, eh? What's your name?"

"Noun, Sir." He found it shameful not to be able to give this self-assured man the truth, so picked the first word that came to mind. The man was _not_ his father.

"Noun, eh?" smiled the man, "You'd better call me by my Christian name too."

"What's that, Sir?"

He'd made a mistake: the man was staring at him with an expression of the utmost amazement.

"You don't know?" he gasped.

"No, Sir."

"You don't recognise Gilderoy Lockhart, one of the most famous people on the planet?"

"No, Sir," said Noun; then, to cover himself: "I've led a sheltered life Sir."

"_Very_ sheltered, obviously; well, I've a feeling that lots of boys used to call me _Sir_ at one time; but _You_ can call me Gilderoy."

"Yes, Gilderoy."

"And your friend, Gilderoy Lockhart's, going to get you out of here."

"Out?"

"Oh yes. I'm one of the cleverest people on the planet, and as soon as I saw you were feigning, I knew you were biding your time, waiting for a chance to escape. Well, Noun, I've been biding my time too; reading about muggles; collecting muggle clothes and muggle money over some years; just waiting for a companion to escape to muggle land with."

"Companion?"

"Yes, I'm afraid my memory sometimes lets me down, so, not being in the least vain, and being one of the most sharing people on the planet, I'm willing to take a companion who will remember things for me."

"Thank you, Sir."

"Get dressed, and wait for me. It's three o'clock now, John's asleep, but he always makes a cup of tea at four. I'll put some of his own sleeping draught in his milk. We'll be out of here and miles away before the seven o'clock people arrive and give the alarm."

As he dressed, Noun thought about the word _muggle_. He decided that Gilderoy was some sort of criminal—a thief or a confidence trickster, maybe, and muggles were his victims.

It must have been nearly two hours before Gilderoy returned. He wore a track-suit top with flannel trousers and slightly gaudy trainers. He carried a trendy-looking shoulder-bag. He looked odd, but not disastrously odd, thought Noun.

"Come on, Noun," he said, "John's out like a bailiff-bilker, but keep quiet all the same."

They crept past John, who was slumped over his table, and into a foyer which had several other wards and corridors leading to it. Gilderoy ignored the stairs and the doors labelled _Lifts_, and led them down a dark, narrow corridor which curved out of sight. The corridor was _St Mungo's Hospital No Access. Service Staff Only_.

Gilderoy seemed to know his way about, and led them purposefully along the corridor, selecting their route when it forked, and leading them to a pair of doors.

"Housewives' lifts," explained Gilderoy. For a moment, Noun had thought he'd said _House_ _Elves_: his brain was still not quite right.

They entered a lift. "Ground floor, please" said Gilderoy, and the lift moved downwards.

The phrase _Voice Recognition Software_ came into Noun's head. His brain couldn't be _that_ bad if he knew about computers.

They left the lift, and passed through a complex of passages—this seemed to be a big hospital—coming to a door with a sign above: _FIRE EXIT ONLY_.

It was a door in the style of perpendicular gothic with carved wooden tracery surrounding mediæval iron scrollwork of straps and hinges.

If he knew all that, why didn't he know his name? For the first time, annoyance was added to helplessness.

Gilderoy reached into his pocket, and drew out some matches.

With a look of cunning, he told Noun: "You're allowed two for your clay pipe so the Carers don't have to keep doing an incendiary for you. They're counted out and counted back, but I was too skilful. You wait here, Noun."

He went back up the corridor, reappearing a minute later.

Noun had got the idea. Sure enough, a voice much louder than the usual public address system bellowed: _Fire! Ground Floor Laundry! Evacuation Procedure!_

Immediately, the exit door seemed to glow for an instant.

Gilderoy wasted no time: he turned the handle and pushed.

They were outside in a jiff, walking smartly away until they had put a quarter of a mile between themselves and the hospital. Noun was surprised at the brightness of the day until he recollected that the sun rose very early in summer.

They were free, but Noun was worried: "Er, Gilderoy," he said, "What about all the people inside the hospital?"

Noun wasn't clear on the ethical structure of the world but he knew that roasting other people was a bit more Evil than Naughty.

"I know," said Gilderoy, "But they won't mind getting a soaking off the sprinklers when they know they've helped procure freedom for Gilderoy Lockhart."

The manner in which he spoke the words _Gilderoy_ _Lockhart_ reminded Noun of someone else pronouncing a different phrase, but in the same way; a _holy_ way; the memory remained vague.

He wondered why Gilderoy had talked about the _seven o'clock people_. The alarm had already been raised. He wondered about Gilderoy's sanity.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"I rather thought _you_ would be able to advise," said Gilderoy.

"I think we should head to the East."

Noun had a feeling that they were in somewhere called _London_, and that _East_ represented safety.

He also felt that a man and boy wandering the streets at this time of the morning made a dangerously conspicuous sight.

"What time do you think it is?" he asked.

Gilderoy glanced at the sun, and said: "Five twenty-three."

"I think we should find a café and stay there until the proper day begins," said Noun.

There was confirmation of Gilderoy's time-estimate from the clock hanging outside a jeweller's shop round the corner.

Gilderoy had another unusual power: "I smell bacon," he said, and led them directly to a café a good quarter mile away.

They made a good breakfast, and loitered for a couple of hours amid the Slav and Latin lorry drivers.

"Which way? Still East," asked Gilderoy.

A word came into Noun's mind: _Bow_. He had a feeling that Bow was a safe place.

He asked directions from the woman, and they walked two or three miles further East.

On the way to Bow, Gilderoy showed a remarkable lack of knowledge about transport and electricity. At one point, they stood in front of a Dixons while Noun explained about Television. Soon he saw that Gilderoy had lost interest: he had seen his reflection in the window, and was carefully combing his hair.

On the other hand, Gilderoy seemed to have an almost psychic gift for finding what he wanted. Having passed several promising inns, hotels, and boarding-houses, he led them down a number of side-streets to an establishment comprising half a dozen terraced houses knocked together, and boasting the name:

_Taj Mahal Palace Hotel_

_Truckers Welcome_.

"I'd like a room for myself and my son, please," said Gilderoy to the man on the desk, after he had given the man long enough to recognise him.

"Certainly, Sir," said the man, "Double or twin?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's thirty-four pounds a night if you share a bed; thirty-nine pounds with two single beds; En Suite throughout, Sir."

"Merlin's beard! You don't imagine _I_ could actually share a bed?"

"Twin, then. Have you got your card, please, Sir?"

"Card . . . I think I used to have cards with my photo."

"He means credit cards, Dad," said Noun; then, to the man: "The credit cards are with my mother, so it'll be cash."

Gilderoy handed over two nights in advance, and they were presented with a key.

It was quite a pleasant room: two neat beds; brightly coloured curtains and carpets; modern, functional furniture; a tiny bathroom. It all looked clean and new.

But Gilderoy only had eyes for a full-length mirror, mounted on the wall. He stood in front of it, staring at his reflection.

"I'd forgotten how handsome I was," he said.

Then he started to undress, admiring himself all the time.

Noun knew that this was odd behaviour, and he knew that it was naughty for him to be so fascinated by Gilderoy's body—especially the private parts, which revealed themselves when the underpants came off. He continued to enjoy the spectacle, nevertheless.

"I've waited _years_ for this!" said Gilderoy, gazing at himself, his worshipping eyes concentrating on the face—a handsome face indeed.

Noun knew that he had seen private parts before: he knew what a stiff adult penis looked like; and, before Gilderoy's hand had moved, he knew what was happening: Gilderoy was going to rub his penis—doing what boys called _wanking_, and adults _playing with yourself_.

Gilderoy did indeed start to rub himself, pausing only to tell Noun: "Don't look! This is just for _me_!"

But Noun carried on looking, and Gilderoy was too wrapped up in himself and his actions to notice.

Things ended as Noun had expected: Gilderoy's penis spat out some creamy goo against the mirror and onto the carpet.

"I'm marvellous, aren't I?" he said, noticing that Noun was staring at him.

"Do you know, I really think you are, Gilderoy," said Noun, "Though I think we should wipe the mess up."

He'd said the wrong thing again.

"Mess!" said Gilderoy, "This is the seed of Gilderoy Lockhart! The servants will want to collect every drop, and treasure it, and preserve it for their grandchildren."

"Perhaps the servants haven't heard of you, Gilderoy."

"Impossible! I'm one of the most famous people on the planet!"

They lay on their beds to catch up with their sleep. Noun was slightly worried by the interest that Gilderoy's performance had aroused in him: his old man was very stiff.

He was woken by his shoulder being shaken.

"Noun! Noun!" said Gilderoy, "I've worked it out!"

Noun was glad that one of them had.

"What's that?" he asked.

"It's what you said about people never having heard of me. It's because they're _muggles_, isn't it?"

"Yes, Gilderoy; now let me get a bit more kip . . . and clean up after yourself."

Gilderoy was back in front of the mirror.

Noun had his little sleep, and afterwards lay on the bed thinking about _muggles_. The German had used the word, so it couldn't be about targets for, or victims of crimes. Then he had it: muggles were the _sane_ people. He and Gilderoy had met in the nuthouse. They were both mad in their different ways; but they had in common the fact that they were being hunted by muggles who wanted to watch and control them.

He had been grateful to Gilderoy for rescuing him; now he felt solidarity with this odd man: _Nomen et Inaurarex contra mundum_. Good Heavens! He could speak Latin!

They left the hotel around noon and went for a wander.

"We need to top up on muggle money," said Gilderoy, "The hotel's more expensive than I expected. I've done the homework, though: we need something called Main Line Stations."

Gilderoy bought a notebook and pen before finding them an Underground station.

They found from the map that the nearest main line station was King's Cross.

Noun felt an unaccountable sense of urgency and panic when he saw the two harmless words.

Gilderoy was fascinated with the escalators, and they had to go down, up, and down again. Then there were the ticket machines and barriers to be negotiated. Eventually, they arrived at King's Cross.

"More homework," said Gilderoy, and had a talk with a person in the Booking Office.

"We'll just hang around the Concourse," said Gilderoy, "Hold my hand."

Noun felt a bit of a nana, wandering around amid the horde of people, holding a man's hand—a hand, moreover, which had recently played with the man's penis. He felt another pang of guilt as he thought again of the pleasure he'd derived from watching a man doing _that_. He resolved to lose all negative emotions: he was allowed to be eccentric: he was a loonie, after all.

His thoughts were interrupted: Gilderoy had seen a likely person: an oldish, well-dressed lady, with an encouraging face.

With an apparently casual swerve, Gilderoy steered them into the lady's path.

"Oh, Ma'am, I'm _so_ sorry," said Gilderoy, "I'm so upset, I don't know where I'm going."

"Whatever is the matter?" asked the lady, looking at Noun in a motherly way.

"I had my pocket picked, and the Police can do nothing, and our tickets and money are gone, and goodness knows how we'll get back home. The policeman said we could hitch-hike to Peterborough, but it's not fair on a ten-year-old boy."

"Typical police attitude. Let me lend you some money, and you can send me a cheque."

The nice lady wrote her name and address in Gilderoy's book, before returning the book with a twenty pound note.

Gilderoy and Noun were profuse in their thanks, but as soon as she had vanished through the exit, Gilderoy ripped the page from his book, and made to throw it away. Noun stopped him, saying: "I'll keep that for good luck.

Gilderoy found another donor before they went down the road to Euston Station, and collected a twenty and a forty: as well as his terrific charm, Gilderoy seemed to have excellent judgement on the milkability of their dupes.

They ate well that evening, and as Noun watched Gilderoy spurting at the mirror, he thought that a life of freedom was good fun.

There was still that nagging feeling about secrets, though.

_**2**_

The living was good over the next few days. Considering that the muggle Police were meant to be doing a nationwide hunt—presumably two nationwide hunts now—it was surprising that the two lunatics seemed to be attracting no attention at all.

They settled into a pleasant daily rhythm: breakfast at the hotel; a money-making visit to a railway station—or later, a well-populated park—a snack lunch followed by a sight-see in whatever neighbourhood they happened to be in; a good dinner; and finally a relaxing winding-down period, reading books and magazines in the park round the corner from the hotel. Sometimes they went shopping for clothes and toiletries. The day was topped and tailed with a mirror-performance by Gilderoy.

On one visit to the park, an interesting looking young man or old boy was asleep on the bench next to them. A prime influence on his present state was visible in the form of a number of empty cans of cider at his feet. Noun and Gilderoy were drinking milk shakes from plastic bottles.

The young man woke and lit a cigarette.

Catching his eye, Noun called over: "Hello. How're you feeling?"

The answer came as an indecipherable burble, so Noun moved across, and sat down with him.

"Alright?" he said.

"Alright, mate," said the man—a rather attractive young man, now that Noun saw him close-to.

"Nice evening."

"Luke McCormac. Pleased to meet you," said the man, offering a hand.

"Noun Lockhart. Pleased to meet _you_."

They shook hands, and smiled at each other.

Luke must have been nineteen or twenty. He had a face like an intelligent gerbil. The rodent theme was maintained in his mousey-coloured hair. He was wearing a flashy track-suit. Either the cut of the trousers, or the configuration of his body made his old man stand proud, giving him a prominent bump between his legs.

Noun was slightly ashamed of himself: it was one thing for loonies to flash their bits about, but another thing altogether for a loonie to notice an innocent muggle's bump.

He was downright embarrassed when he saw that Luke had observed Noun's downward glances.

But Luke diplomatically talked about something else: "Are you on the game?" he asked.

Noun thought that Luke was referring to the big boys kicking a football about. "No, I'm too young," he said.

Luke laughed cheerfully and told Noun: "You're _never_ too young. You know what the punters say. If they're old enough to run, they're old enough."

Noun kept quiet, not seeing the relevance to football. He assumed the saying came from horse-racing circles, and related to the ages of foals. Then he suddenly realised that Luke had made a witty transposition, the joke consisting of the supposedly disingenuous confusion of the two meanings of _punter_.

He laughed cheerfully too, and realised that he was a boy who took delight in other people's cleverness.

"Are you with that bloke, then?" asked Luke, indicating Gilderoy.

"Yeah."

"Is he your sugar-daddy?"

"Yeah."

Luke assumed that _sugar_ was a rather sweet (ha-ha) way of highlighting the beautiful relationship of father and son.

"You lucky bugger!" said Luke, Most of 'em are stinking Arabs and Pakis. Does he want a bit of rough, do you think?"

"He doesn't play golf."

"Where'd you meet him? Down the Alley?"

"No we met in—er, outside a hospital; but we go down the Alley sometimes to look at the market stalls."

Noun was referring to the market quite near to the Taj.

"I _knew_ you were wizard. And I knew you were a rod-the-bod boy as soon as I saw yer."

Like a lot of things that people said, this was meaningless to Noun; but he couldn't ask too many questions for fear of giving himself—and Gilderoy—away.

"Are you dog-in-a-manger?" asked Luke.

This was getting to be totally incomprehensible. He decided attack was the best form of defence.

"Are you a policeman?" he asked.

Luke laughed loud and long. "Careful little goblin, aren't you? Here feel that!"

He grabbed Noun's arm, and placed his hand against the bump.

Noun squeezed, and felt something big. It wasn't stiff, but it twitched in his hand, which he withdrew quickly.

"No policeman would do that!" said Noun, "And I bet you had me marked down for a muggle an' all."

Ah! Thank goodness! Luke was a loonie too.

"Are you on the run?" he asked.

Luke laughed again. "No," he said, "Are you?"

Noun made an instant decision to trust the man.

"Yes, we're on the run," he said.

"Maybe I can help," said Luke, "I'd better meet your daddy."

They walked over to the other bench. Gilderoy had nodded off over a men's fashion magazine.

"Been on the piss?" asked Luke.

"No, but we've done a lot of walking today," said Noun.

"Best leave him to sleep then."

"Yeah."

They sat down on the bench together.

"And I bet you had me marked down for a gay, Noun," said Luke, "A gay muggle policeman. Well I've got up to no end of mischief in my time, but no-one's called me that before."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend," said Noun, though he was concerned at the unknown panic that had stricken him at the mention of the word _gay_."

"No offence taken, mate. For your information, rent doesn't mean gay. You're a bit too young to know much about these things, but I've got a girlfriend and everything I do on the scene is a career move."

This was all Greek to Noun (Greek? No, he knew Latin but not Greek).

He was saved from the problem of framing a response by Gilderoy, who woke with a jolt and a cry of: "Marvellous!"

Noun decided to introduce Luke: he got as far as "Gilderoy Lock—"

"Noun, honestly!" said Gilderoy, "Don't go racing after everything like a niffler. It's just been revealed to me in a dream that my real name is not Gilderoy but Gilroy. I modified it for professional purposes, though what my profession was, I haven't the least idea." He tittered, and tossed his hair boyishly.

Noun remembered something about Abram and Abraham; but at least _that_ old fart had had the sense to stick with the change.

Fair enough, he was a loonie himself, but Gilderoy and Luke were super-loonies, full of gibberish and rambling ideas.

"Here! I know—" said Luke, at the same time as Gilderoy was saying: "The thing is—" but Noun had had enough: "Shut up the pair of you!"

There was enough silence for Noun to be able to get in: "This is Luke McCormac; and this is Gilroy Lockhart."

"You're famous, aren't you Gil!" said Luke, excitedly.

"Somewhat of an understatement," said Gilroy, "You're a bit too young to know much about these things, but I believe I'm _still_ one of the most famous people on the planet."

"Your face was in the shop windows."

"People never tired of gazing at my visage."

"You was always down the alley signin' autograffs, wasn't yer, Gil?"

In his excitement Luke was forgetting the gentility that he had assumed for Noun's benefit.

"Ah, so many fans; so many broken hearts," rhapsodised Gilroy.

"An' yer signed that littel lad's broom, didn't yer?"

"The joy of adding a little to the youthful radiance of the world."

"An' Ol' man Malfoy said you'd just written down evryfink you knowed bart evryfink."

"Come on, Noun, time to retire," said Gilroy, getting to his feet.

"Don' take it wrong, Gil; evryone knows Ol' man Malfoy's just a gobshite deaf eater."

"If you say so . . . Luke, was it?"

"Luke knows we're on the run, Gilroy," said Noun, "And he says he may be able us."

"It's like this," said Luke, "I live in a squat, and we all look after each other. There's two of 'em on the run like you and they're in the safest house in London. You two'd be welcome to join with us."

"That's a very friendly offer, Luke," said Gilroy, "But we're really comfortably off at present."

"The offer's always open, so if there comes a time when you're not comfortably off, you just need to come to us. They're all muggles, by the way."

Luke was looking at Noun when he said this, having probably decided to go for what appeared to be the more rational half of the partnership.

"That's kind of you, Luke," said Noun, "Can you show us the way now?"

The three of them set off in a direction away from the Taj.

Luke and Gilroy babbled in a loonie manner, while Noun pondered.

He couldn't believe it: Gilroy really _was_ famous. It was too much to believe that two loonies held identical delusions. But famous for what? Gilroy's only visible attributes were his personal charm, and his skill in deceiving everyone—including himself.

Noun decided that his very first thoughts had been correct: Gilroy was a criminal; and he made muggles his mugs.

Another reality-shift was affecting Noun: at first he couldn't place it; then he realised that they were walking along familiar streets. The phrase _Like the back of his hand_ came to mind. But he could remember nothing except the bare fact of familiarity.

Reality imposed itself in yet another way: "I need a piss," he told the others, going up a side-alley.

Luke joined him, and Noun felt newly-embarrassed by his pleasure at the prospect of seeing what was causing the bump.

Embarrassment didn't prevent him having a good look, though. In the last of the daylight, he watched as Luke pulled his foreskin back to reveal a massive red knob, supported by a rather puny stalk.

He was goggling openly, and Luke was goggling back. Not much for him to see, thought Noun.

He finished his little-boy piddle, as Luke continued with the torrent of a young cider drinker. He rounded it off with a prodigious bout of shaking. "Not a bad cock, is it?" he said, "The punters love it."

"It's nice," said Noun, embarrassed in three ways: thinking Luke's cock nice; admitting it to him; and failing again to get a sophisticated punter-joke.

But as they walked on, he consoled himself with the thought that he was a ten-year-old loonie: of course he was interested in men's bodies; and of course he couldn't follow men's humour completely.

Luke stopped in front of a three-storeyed terrace house. It was shuttered up; lots of houses in London were shuttered up.

"That's home sweet home," said Luke, "Entrance round the back."

He led them to a side-alley, and into a service-road. He opened the gate into the back yard of the squat, and led them to the back door. He gave a complicated knock.

There was the sound of bolts being drawn, and heavy furniture moved. Then they were inside.

There were three men and three women longing about on sofa, chair and cushions.

Multiple introductions were made before Luke took them to the top floor.

"Plenty of room for you here," he said, proudly showing them his bedroom.

It was a Victorian house, and the bare boards and dirty-grey wallpaper looked as though they were original.

The furniture consisted of a sleeping bag, and some odds and ends of clothes which might have been responsible for the slightly fruity odour that hung in the air.

The fastidious Gilroy would never, under any circumstances, move here, thought Noun.

That night, lying in bed at the Taj, he thought of the interesting boy-man; he re-lived the memory of feeling Luke's cock under the layers of cloth. Then he fantasised about feeling Luke's cock _without_ the layers of cloth. Then he wondered what Luke's extraordinary cock was like when it went stiff. Then he wished he could feel Luke all over: explore his entire body; get to understand the anatomy of attractive grown-ups. Then he felt ashamed of himself.

It was only on the next morning that he realised that he had forgotten to monitor Gilroy wanking in front of the mirror.

_**3**_

The Longest Day approached.

Cockneys delighted in cheering up their companions at bus-stops, cafés and public bars with the news that the nights would soon be drawing in. Winter was coming on, they assured each other, lugubriously.

Non-cockneys treated such comments as they treated all of the many absurdities of the natives: they noted them, and then ignored them completely.

Noun and Gilroy went a stage further, and shut their ears to anything negative. Their days were too full of wonders: the sights of the great city; cinemas, museums and galleries; shops and markets; sports and pastimes; parks and gardens; the great river; the rural surroundings; music in places that could seat eight thousand or eighty.

One day they were strolling through Borough Market when they stopped to look at some clothes. The disreputable-looking stallholder did a double-take, and sidled up to Gilroy.

"Awright, Gildroy," he said.

"Hello," said Gilroy.

"You remember me don' yer? Mundungus Fletcher."

"Of course I remember you, Mundungus. How could I forget such a pillar of society?"

"Awright, awright. No need fer sarcasm. Not yer style. You still leggin' it? I can fix yer a reelly safe 'ideout. Very good terms."

"We're comfortably accommodated, thanks, Mundungus. Now we have to go. Come on, Noun."

"I got some fine antique silver, fer yer mansion, Gildroy," called Mundungus after them.

"Who was that?" asked Noun.

"I haven't the least idea. I never met him before in my life."

"He was interesting. I'd like to have seen more of him."

This was true: Mundungus Fletcher had the biggest bump that Noun had ever seen.

Perhaps this meeting was a blessing sent by Fate, because the reminder that people from their former lives could appear at any time made Noun extra-alert.

They were returning home one evening, after an idyllic day at Kew, and a good meal at something called a gastro-pub—though, strangely, snails were not on the menu—when Noun suddenly clutched Gilroy's arm, and about-turned them.

He had seen a car parked a couple of streets from the hotel. There was nothing particularly noticeable about the car, or the two men sitting inside it; but on the many previous occasions that they had walked that street in the evening there had _never_ been such a configuration.

Noun explained this to Gilroy and told him that they would have to go to the squat. Gilroy, thinking of his comfort and his mirror, was strongly resistant, but agreed under pressure to go for one night as a safety precaution.

They reached the squat, gave the knock and were admitted.

Luke was not there, but the other residents were very welcoming—especially as the newcomers insisted on contributing twice to the kitty. They sat around drinking herbal tea. The muggles also smoked herbal cigarettes, which the loonies declined.

Luke arrived at midnight. He listened to the tale, and immediately left the house again.

An hour later, he was back.

"You wouldn't believe it," he said, "I walked past the hotel, and it all looked quiet. But there's a van parked each end of the road—probably six men with shooters in each; there's a van round the corner where you can hear barking; and everywhere courting couples—sometimes man and woman; sometimes two men. And it's all centred on the Taj Mahal Palace."

"We're _not_ going home tonight, Gilroy," said Noun.

"This _is_ your home," said one of the lady-residents, sweetly.

"You must have done some big-time crime," said Luke, "They're treating you like an anti-terrorist raid."

"All we did was escape from the loonie-bin," said Noun.

"What, together?" asked a gentleman-resident.

"Yes."

"Then they'll have it down as a kidnapping—that's Public Safety and Child Protection. They love these Capital Letters affairs. It makes such a hole in the budget, that the government has to bail them out. And the government doesn't notice that they've only spent eighty per cent of what they claim, so they have the money to do seminars and brainstorming and team-building in five-star hotels, which is really just free booze and shagging."

"Sounds a good way to run a business," said Noun.

"It is," said an older resident, "Better than sending people to prison for a quid deal of pot, like they used to."

Cushions and blankets were found, and the three loonies bedded down at the top of the house.

The next day's priority was camp beds and sleeping bags.

Then came disguise: hair was trimmed and dyed—perforce, as all visible parts of the skin, including scalps were stained so that Noun and Gilroy appeared to be Asians. Appropriate dress was purchased, and on the third day, the two of them ventured out into the big city once more.

They resumed their money-making efforts, with Noun sometimes doing a little talking, as he had developed a charming and sad touch of Indian lilt.

Who knows how long this happy life would have lasted, had not Noun decided one evening to pop down to the shop for some crisps?

He left the shop, and was walking up the hill, when he passed a boy of his own age going in the other direction. He looked a pleasant sort of boy: dark-haired, freckled face, rather bony. Noun could not stop himself looking for a bump.

The boy was staring at him too. He passed Noun, but immediately returned and stood in front of him.

"Adam?" he said, "It _is_ Adam! What the hell are you doing? Where have you been? What's going on?"

_**4**_

Noun looked at this total stranger blankly.

Adam. His name was Adam. It meant nothing to him—no sudden jolt of memory; not even a sense that it fitted him. Adam was simply an attractive name for an attractive boy—he had sometimes admired himself in the mirror, though without Gilroy's gymnastics.

"Adam," said the stranger, "We've been going mad! Your mum and dad are going through hell, and we didn't know whether to tell them or not.

Noun—he must keep the name for the present—had been wondering how open he should be. But if he confessed to being a loonie, this boy, and the others who made up _we_, would tell his parents and he would be back in the cage, being watched and controlled.

"Ssh!" he told the boy, "Keep the noise down. There are things that are secret, and we can't let people hear."

"Secret from me and Ralph?" asked the boy, "We were in it from the start. Adam, is it because of the gay thing? Me and Ralph are really sorry. You can be as gay as you like, and we're still your friends. We behaved like cads. We were really upset afterwards."

"Don't worry about that," said Noun, despite feeling a hint of terror, "Is there anywhere we can go and talk secretly."

"The empty house is still safe. Me and Ralph have been watching. There are still people coming and going, but obviously we couldn't see or hear anything on the CCTV. You ought to patent that brainprint thing."

"Let's go."

"We can pick up Ralph on the way."

They walked to a nearby street.

"Wait here," said the boy, "We don't want Ralph yelling the news to high heaven."

He walked up the road and knocked on a door.

The door opened, there was a conversation, and the boy returned with the famous Ralph.

He had obviously been well-briefed, and restricted himself to a quiet _Hi Adam_ as if the three boys saw each other every day—as they probably had before Noun's little trouble.

He was the same age as the other two and, like Gilroy, had blond, floppy hair. There the resemblance ended: Ralph's face was utterly trustworthy, and its every expression showed interest in other people.

The word _Adorable_ came into Noun's mind.

Their way took them to the rear of a terraced street. Some of the houses were shuttered like the squat. The target house was boarded up.

They entered the house using a plank as a ladder to reach the flat roof of an extension, and pulled aside a board so that they could crawl through a window.

The boy without a name lit a candle, and revealed a room that was totally bare except for three wooden crates; and a small television connected to a metal box, and to a number of wires that disappeared through a hole in the ceiling.

The arrangement was slightly familiar to Noun, but he had no time to sort out why: something totally unexpected happened: Ralph took him into a tight embrace and _kissed_ him; not just any old kiss, but a kiss as sloppy and passionate as any in the films that he and Gilroy had been to see.

"I'm really, really sorry, Adam," he said, "We behaved like shits. After years being mates, we shouldn't have reacted like that when you wanted to kiss us."

The other boy replaced Ralph, and kissed Noun with equal vigour. "From now on I'll kiss you whenever you want; and do anything you want," he said, fiercely.

Noun was thoroughly embarrassed.

"Alright, alright the pair of you!" he said, "It's not that important. Tell me what's being going on since, er, since I went away."

He decided that this was the best way to learn some of the things in his past while concealing his ignorance.

They sat down on the crates.

"Well, you went off after Jugson," began the unnamed boy, "And it all seemed fine. But then, the next day, you were reported missing, and we didn't know what to do."

"Your last words were 'Remember we must keep it secret till we can learn who Neville is.' " said Ralph.

"So if we told the Police," said the other, "They might bust Jugson and Rowle, but they wouldn't have split, and Neville would still have been wide open to being imperioused by the others."

"Imperioused?" said Noun.

"Yeah, stop showing off, Raymond!" laughed Ralph (_Thank you_ thought Noun), "Just because you're a master of languages!"

"Okay, kidnapped, then," said Raymond. Noun wondered if _Raymond_ was ironic, and whether he might be usually addressed as _Ray_.

"Anyway, for better or worse, we decided to keep mum," continued Raymond or Ray.

"We continued to keep watch," said Ralph, "They're still turning up. Sometimes Jugson and Rowle arrive together; sometimes it's Rowle with a teenager—there are three teenagers in the plot apparently. Jugson and Rowle stay for anything from five to fifteen minutes. Rowle and the teenagers stay for just five minutes, or so. Actually, we haven't seen Jugson for a week or so: it's just been Rowle and one of the teenagers."

"But without you, Adam," said Raymond, "We didn't have a clue what was going on."

_Like me now!_ thought Noun, but he pressed ahead: "Anything else?"

"Nothing at all until the Taj Mahal affair," said Raymond, "There was a news blackout—presumably to avoid this Lockhart fellow from panicking and bumping you off—I say! Were you really staying in the Taj, Adam?"

"No comment," said Noun.

"Well, you can't keep a full-scale raid like that quiet," continued Raymond, "The locals noticed the people in the cars hanging about all night—obvious coppers—and the hotel staff were gossiping to whoever'd listen—reporters or anyone else. But as my dad's your dad's churchwarden, he got all the inside gen."

"What did your dad have to say?" asked Noun.

"Well, they told your dad that they'd had a positive identification of you from photos and that you'd been staying in the hotel, apparently voluntarily, with someone called Gilroy Lockhart, who was on the wanted list—he'd recently escaped from secure mental health custody.

"They found that this Lockhart was the son of a Mrs Stratford, who'd had nothing to do with her son for years. It seems that young Gilroy fell out with his stepfather—Dad wouldn't tell us why."

Adam wondered if it had involved mirrors.

"They went after the father," said Raymond, "David Robert Gilroy, but he knew nothing. He remembered having a drunken fling with a skivvy called Amy Lockhart at a Christmas party in Reading in Nineteen Sixty-Five, but that was all. He didn't even know that he'd fathered a bastard."

"Did they know of any connection with Jugson and Rowle?"

"No; and that disappointed us: there was nothing about the twenty-fourth of June, or the Hogwarts Express, or King's Cross, or slithering safe house, or Satanism."

"Satanism?" asked Noun, in some surprise.

It was Raymond's turn to look surprised: "Well, it was _your_ idea; and the way you explained it there didn't seem any other likely interpretation of the Dark Lord; and it was you who guessed they pronounced _defeaters_ as _DEFeaters_ because they were actually saying _death eaters_; and it was you who put the two together."

"Sorry, I was thinking for a moment that you were reporting what the police said." One word that he must not use to these two nice boys was _forget_.

"Have you traced Neville?" asked Ralph.

"Er . . . well."

He was not playing for time; he was simply incapable of coherent speech: this boy was so attractive . . . so _beautiful_; and he had kissed him. For the first time since he had woken up, Noun felt happiness deep inside him.

"Are you okay, Adam?" asked Ralph.

"Yeah, yeah. I need to decide what to do next."

"I'll change the batteries while you're thinking."

Ralph opened the metal box, and swapped the big power-cells for newly-charged cells from his shoulder-bag. He turned on the TV, which showed a wide-angle view of a room furnished only with two chairs.

The phrase _Infra-Red_ came to him. The camera was mounted in the ceiling, and was presumably concealed: Noun, Raymond and Ralph must have been spying on Jugson, Rowle and three teenage boys.

It was a neat set-up, but why on earth could Raymond and Ralph _obviously_ not see or hear anything? Was it Noun's brainprint thing, whatever that was?

He decided that he'd learnt as much as he could learn without exposing his loopiness.

"I have to go now," he said, "There are others waiting for me."

"And their crisps," said Raymond, with a ravishingly beautiful grin.

"No mickey-taking, or I'll kiss you," laughed Noun.

They arranged to meet at five o'clock the next day, after school. With a jolt, Noun realised that he probably went to the same school; and he couldn't remember a single thing about it.

Back at the squat, he asked the assembled company what gay meant—though he had more-or-less guessed by now.

He was given a comprehensive answer, and was pleased that the company, though clearly non-gay, was in no way biased against gays—seemed, indeed, to be pro-gay. The only negative comment was from Gilroy: "I don't see why they bother: they'll never find anyone as good-looking as me."

He had no joy with Hogwarts Express, but stirred up a hornet's nest with Satanism. There were two schools of thought: one held that Satan was the victim of propaganda and his worship as valid as worship of any other Deity; the other that Satanism was an excuse for life's losers to boost their egos and sex-lives. No-one knew of any local groups, however.

He lay in bed, and decided that his best bet was to ask around at King's Cross in the morning, and try and learn more about the Hogwarts Express; and to keep watch at the slithering safe house with the beautiful boys the following evening. He was pretty sure that the safe house slithered from place to place periodically. It was an attractive metaphor.

Then the day after was the twenty-fourth. If he had to watch from dawn to dusk, he would do his best to protect the unknown Neville.

He was on the threshold of sleep when he heard a crash-tinkle from the floor below. It sounded as though someone had broken the mirror. Noun could guess who. Gilroy really _needed_ minders. Perhaps he'd be better off in St Mungo's ,where at least they knew his past.

Mundungus Fletcher knew his past too, and had offered to find an alternative place to hide. Noun decided to go to the market first thing and sound Mundungus out.

He settled down to sleep.

Gilroy came up and shook his shoulder, saying jubilantly: "I told them I'd buy a new, bigger mirror."

By the time Gilroy got himself to bed, Noun was fully awake, and settled himself to review the exciting events of the day again.

It must have been about an hour later that Luke came home. Noun could hear his usual great torrent of urine from the lav on the floor below. By now, Noun knew that Luke _rented_ his body out to _punters_. He would possibly have written the scenario off as fantastic, had not Luke sometimes returned loaded with cash.

Luke had asserted that rent didn't mean gay, but in this case, Noun was sure that rent and gay were brothers—though Luke kept a straight character with the squatters, telling them he got his money from bar work.

And as for the girlfriend, she was surely non-existent, though Luke sometimes seemed to believe in her—but then he was a loonie like Noun, who still had the delusion that two beautiful boys had kissed him that evening.

As if as a wry commentary on their delusions, Luke seeing that Noun was awake, said "Alright, Noun," leant over, and kissed him as warmly and wetly as the two delusion-boys.

"No offence mate," he said, getting into his sleeping bag, "But you're such a cute little thing."

Then he added, with a chuckle: "For a Paki, anyway."

Noun forgot about Neville. He was totally happy to be lying with a taste of cider in his mouth; close to Luke; two gay loonie-boys together.

Next time Luke kissed him . . . next time . . .

_**5**_

In the morning, Noun was up betimes.

"Don't go out without someone with you," he reminded Gilroy, who responded: "I think I used to go out at the head of an _army_."

It was a pleasant morning, and he decided to walk to the market. He would sound out Mundungus Fletcher, get some breakfast, and take the tube to King's Cross.

On the way, he looked at the crowds—the male component, anyway—with new eyes: he was gay, and any of these men and boys might one day kiss him and become his lover.

Until then, he must keep it secret like Luke.

At the Borough, his priorities changed: he could not resist the smell of bacon, and sat down outside a food-van with a breakfast roll and a mug of tea, before going into the market.

Mundungus was at his stall.

As soon as Noun stopped, Mundungus went into sales mode: "I've got special contac's wot can get yer the best incense in Lunnon," he began.

"Mundungus!" said Noun, "Stop rabbiting, and listen."

Mundungus stopped immediately. It was something to do with _Class_, thought Noun; the patrician tone.

"It's me," he said, "Gilderoy's friend. I'm in disguise."

Mundungus peered, and said: "Merlin's Pubes! That's brilliant! I'd never've recognised yer. 'As Gil gorn all fulla Eastern promise too?"

"Yes. My name's Noun. Me and Gilderoy were wondering about your offer of a hideout."

The tinkle of cash registers seemed to be in the air, as Mundungus said: "No problem, Noun. I can sort yer the safest arse in Lunnon—or not in Lunnon, knowimean?"

He tapped the side of his nose.

"Er," said Noun. He had just notice the towering bulge in the man's trousers. It was not attractive, even though Noun was gay, but it was compellingly fascinating.

"It'll 'ave ter be arter the weeken', though," said Mundungus, "It's enda term an' all the littel bleeders'll be 'opping orf the 'Ogwarts Express wettin' their pants fer the latest muggle kit—an' I got the very best at knockdarn prices. 'Ave a look at this Adidas jacket—"

"Did you say Hogwarts Express?" interrupted Noun?

"Yeah—oh I s'pose you'll be going on it in September? Well I'll tell you this, Noun: I can get you most of yer stuff better quality at arf the price those sharks'll try an' charge in the alley. That Madam Malkin—"

Noun interrupted Mundungus again: "I'm interested in meeting someone off the Hogwarts express; it _is_ tomorrow, isn't it?"

"Yeah King's Cross, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, six PM. Tell yer friends I'll be open in Diagon Alley until 'levenerclock. Tremendous gear. You won't find better in the 'ole of Lunnon."

"Well actually, Mundungus, I probably won't _be_ with friends; It's been suggested by neighbours of my parents that I make contact with a person called Neville; but I've forgotten the surname."

"Only one Neville at 'Ogwarts," laughed Mundungus, "And I don' ruddy envy yer."

"Why not? Is he an unpleasant person?"

"No, he's fine. Always got a polite word for me, an' I sometimes gets 'im quality magical plants at real knockdown prices."

"What's the problem, then?"

"It's 'is granma: real old battleaxe. I seen 'er give Fudge 'isself such a going over, 'e turned green as 'is 'at."

"What's Neville's name?"

"Neville Longbottom, son of poor ol' Frank an' Alice. Mebbe that's why old Mrs Longbottom's such a terror."

"What's he look like?"

" 'E'd be sixteen now; sort of round; round face too—looks a bit gormless, but yer don' always wanna go on looks."

"And how does this Platform Nine and Three-Quarters work."

"Di'n't no-one tell yer? Well—"

He was interrupted yet again—this time by the appearance of two soberly-dressed men.

"Mundungus Fletcher," said one of them, "I arrest you for . . ."

Police!

Noun ran immediately

The words: _Unlawful use of a magical artefact, namely . . ._ were being spoken behind him, along with even weirder words: _Oblivio Muggletum_.

He ran and ran, weaving in and out of the people—sparsely distributed at this time of day.

He looked round to see if he was being followed: no, thank goodness.

He turned back.

There was a brick wall in front of him.

He ran full-tilt into it.

_**6**_

He was Nothing, surrounded by Nothingness.

Not Nothing: Something, because Something was thinking the thought.

_I'm Adam!_

It gave him great happiness to be Adam.

Why?

It must be something to do with that weird dream.

Then his eyes opened. There was no warning: One moment he was Happy Adam, floating in nothingness; and the next he was surrounded with curtains—not the curtain of nuttiness that had surrounded him in his dream, but real curtains of solid, coloured fabric.

"I'm Adam!" he said.

"Hello, Son," said a kindly, female voice.

"Dear boy," said a man, with exquisite articulation.

Both voices were familiar.

"Mum! Dad!" he said.

"How are you feeling?" asked his mother.

"He's well and back, let's leave it at that, dear," said his father. Adam guessed they were under instructions not to question or disturb him.

"I'm hungry," he said.

A nurse came; then a doctor, who prodded him all over, but spent most of the time flashing a light into his eyes.

"Any headache?" asked the doctor

"A tiny one," said Adam.

"Well, Adam," said the doctor, "Your scan's okay, and despite the knock on the head, you're totally healthy—just a little touch of what we doctors call Concussion."

"And the more educated, Mild Traumatic Brain Injury," laughed Adam.

The doctor laughed too. "You'll do!" he said, "Can you put up with twenty-four hours complete rest? You'll be in racing tune after that."

"Any chance of some food?"

"Sure you can keep it down?"

"Sure."

"Alright. Nurse: soup, roll-and-butter _ad libitum_," and, in an undertone: "And make sure those police and pressman don't get near him."

His mother and father talked about things that had been happening in his absence: safe, harmless, happy things: a chiff-chaff's nest; the old Creed used on Trinity Sunday; Mrs Lowe expecting; cricket matches; a lost kitten found (_That's a bit near the knuckle, Mum_ he thought).

When he'd had his soup, the nurse chivied his parents away. He was watered, and tucked up.

"Try and get a couple of hours' sleep," said the nurse, "Doctor says you can have a little walk after tea."

He lay back and closed his eyes.

All the excitement had kept his memories and fantasies at bay, but now they returned, swirling round in his head like milk in a cup of tea.

There was so much inside; where to begin?

Gay.

It all started from there, surely . . . yet at some time in his life he had been _happy_ to be gay.

_I'm gay_ he thought, testing his reactions.

Then memories returned, and started taking some sort of order.

_**7**_

_Gay_.

He couldn't remember a time in his life when the word hadn't been terrifying. Real and not real: real because it existed; not real because it remained a threat. It was a word like _Murder_ or _Cancer_: something awful that might suddenly become reality.

His parents were modern, educated people, who were happy and proud to have produced such a bright, good-hearted boy, and always told him the truth.

They told him that homosexual men preferred other men, and did not want to marry women. Homosexuals called themselves _gay_, which his father said was like _black_: both being useful, broad-spectrum words which had been appropriated for unacceptably specific purposes.

It gradually dawned on Adam that he, himself, was homosexual: he would _always_ prefer other men, and would _never_ want to marry women; and in parallel with this recognition, he came to understand his father's attitude: for Dad, gay simply meant _wrong_; this implied _Sin_, but Dad never used the word, considering it _too_ broad-spectrum.

Being gay was a minor sin, anyway, and Dad never condemned minor sins; even with major sins, he never hated, despised, or belittled the sinners. He welcomed a paroled murderer into the congregation as readily as the local MP; and he treated the known gays with the same kindness and respect as he did the more philoprogenitive church-goers.

When Adam had first started to read, he learnt about saints. He used to think that Dad was a saint, but now he realised that all men are a mixture, and Dad was better described as a good man.

He still worshipped his Dad, so his gayness became a source, not only of shame, but of terror: terror that he would bring unhappiness to his father; and later a fear that his friends, Raymond and Ralph, would think he was letting them down.

The three friends had learnt about the supposed practicalities of gayness from smutty talk at school, where it was commonly supposed to be centred on a practice called bumming.

Bumming seemed to Adam to be not so much repulsive as surreal: it was like taking an orange for a walk, or talking to butterflies.

But, with the elimination of bumming as the prime exemplar of gayness, something was needed to fill the vacuum.

The something shone as clearly in his mind as the tongues of fire that lit the Apostles: _Kissing_. He longed to kiss his friends; a quick kiss on the field, between overs; a medium kiss after lunch at school; a long, long kiss in the evenings while the radio played heavenly music.

His fantasy life, which had hitherto involved such occupations as deputy cabin-boy on the _Hispaniola_ or runner for the Maquis in occupied France, changed to focus on kissing: his friends; every boy in school; every boy in the world.

And despite all this wasted thought, despite the guilt, despite the terror, his school work _improved_.

Maybe it was because he was a happy boy with happy friends, so dark thoughts couldn't stay on the surface for long; maybe it was because, fearful of upsetting his father in one way, he was compensating by pleasing him in another.

His life was happy and settled, and things might have stayed that way, except for the weather: it had been cold for the few days after Christmas; a sudden thaw set the chain of events going.

Adam and his friends went outside, found some of their schoolmates, and spent the afternoon playing football.

They went, fairly exhausted, back to Raymond's for tea, and went up to his bedroom to watch TV. Three channels looked crappy, but BBC2 could usually come up with something.

"This looks good," said Raymond.

A thrilling aerial shot of wonderful scenery was accompanied by swirling symphonic music. The camera homed in on a woman, and the speaker blared: _The hills are alive with the sound of music_.

The boys screamed, and the TV was switched off.

"Let's see if we can get into the empty house," said Adam.

They had noticed the boarded-up house before. Being Sherlock fans, _The Empty House_ had a certain glamour.

They armed themselves with torch, knife and screwdrivers, wrapped up warm, and made their way to the rear of the house.

Forcing an entry was quite easy, and from that night on, the house was theirs.

They visited it once or twice a week, sitting on their orange-boxes, illuminated by their candles, and talking.

Other boys might have indulged in the classic four C's of naughty boys: Cigarettes, Cider, Cannabis and Cocks.

Adam and his friends were, however, clean-living boys—intellectual boys as well: they loved talking around and within all sorts of subjects.

The house on one side was occupied by an old couple; the other side appeared unoccupied except that, in the evening, people came and went mysteriously.

It was frustrating: they could hear the murmur of voices through the wall, but could not make out the words.

The boys decided that whatever was going on was probably illegal. Their first reaction was to tip off the police, but they decided that the police were hardly likely to set up surveillance, let alone a raid, on the say-so of three boys of ten or eleven.

"CCTV!" said Adam, "If it's got plaster-work like this room, we could hide a spy-camera with built-in mike."

"We'd make too much of a mess drilling through," said Raymond.

"Not if we went through the attic," said Ralph.

They took that approach, and things went well: the two attics were separated only by a single thickness of bricks, tied with skimpy, low-quality mortar; the floorboards proved amenable.

The only remaining challenge was that of drilling through the plaster without making a mess. They solved that (they hoped) by going slowly with a hand-drill fitted with a narrow bit, while sucking the debris clear with a hand-held vacuum cleaner.

They widened the hole until it was large enough for their IR camera to see through.

They made everything neat, and tested the set-up. The picture was perfect, but the sound would have to wait for the villains to arrive and start talking.

And waiting was the word: they took it in turns to be the unlucky boy who sat in the darkened front room, watching for the villains.

The other two were able to talk in the back room, and they quickly decided that the most enjoyable way of passing the time was to read English (occasionally Latin) verse aloud to each other.

Then, one night, they struck lucky.

"Psst!" said Raymond, from the front room, and the three boys huddled over the screen.

The sound worked fine: they heard the door opening.

Then two men entered, and there was an immediate disappointment: one of the men waved what looked like a long pencil, but must have been some sort of remote control, and the screen became a snowstorm.

"Damn!" said Adam, "They've got counter-surveillance."

It was sad, but there was nothing the boys could do.

Adam visualised the satisfaction of looking at the two men and listening to their every word.

Then the screen cleared, and he _was_ looking at the two men and listening to their every word.

The two men were evidently discussing how someone called Ermintrude was on standby to sort out some examinations—and more importantly to do some work with someone called Polyjuice Potter. She would only be called on if the Ministry plan failed.

He couldn't make sense of it, but he was totally rapt.

"Er, I don't think it's any use, Adam," said Ralph.

"I know," said Adam, "They're talking all technical. I wonder if it's industrial espionage."

"What d'you mean talking?"

"Can't you hear them?"

"No," said Ralph and Raymond simultaneously.

"What do you see on the screen?"

"Snowstorm," said Raymond.

"White noise," said Ralph."

"This is _really_ weird," said Adam, "Let's just wait until they leave."

The men talked for another few minutes—more gibberish—before making to leave.

They went to the front room, and saw the two men exiting from next door. One of them walked up the road, but they somehow lost sight of the other man.

They slipped out the empty house and walked up the road.

"We've got a real mystery," said Adam, "You're not kidding me, are you? You really couldn't see or hear anything?"

"We could ask _you_ the same question," said Raymond, "But, assuming you're not kidding, what did you do."

"As soon as they put up the block, I imagined myself being able to break through, and it worked. You two'll have to try it next time, which is, incidentally, Thursday at eight."

But on Thursday, even with Adam talking them through it, the two boys were as out of it as before.

Before then, they had between them worked out a likely explanation: the anti-surveillance scrambled electro-magnetic signals, but the brain also works electro-magnetically, and Adam was capable of producing what they called a brainprint which overlaid the scrambled signals to restore the original.

Adam had to give a commentary or summary for the two others, which was a pain. However, there was no more waiting: meetings were always at eight, and the participants always confirmed the day of the next meeting.

The two men were called Rowle and Jugson. Rowle was big, Scottish and fair-haired. Jugson was small and bespectacled. They were both dressed in clothes which didn't quite seem right. Could Rowle really be wearing a Nineteen-Thirties suit?

Neither was the boss: they both seemed to be equally under the discipline of someone they called the Dark Lord.

Sometimes the meetings lasted two minutes, and sometimes as long as a quarter of an hour.

One night there was a variation: Rowle said: "See you Thursday, then; but I'm going to treat myself to a mouth tomorrow at eight, if you care to turn up."

"I'll see what I can do, Rowle," said Jugson, "Though the Missus is still touchy as hell about last year."

The three spies attended, of course, and Adam saw a boy of about sixteen or seventeen enter the room with Rowle.

There was no conversation; just an astonishing sequence: Rowle lowered his trousers and underpants, exposing his old man, which was stiff. Adam just got a glimpse of it though: the youth knelt down, and _took it into his mouth_.

"Good Lord," he said.

"What's happening?" from the other two.

"They're going through an account book, I think."

What was really happening was that the youth was moving his head about and doing something with his hands.

It lasted less than two minutes. Then Rowle pulled his pants up, and the two left.

The boys raced to the front window, and saw the boy walking away on his own.

Adam was astute enough to understand immediately that this _mouth_, as Rowle had called it, was a cognate to bumming. Adam's old man got stiff sometimes, but he had no urge to stick it _anywhere_ in _anybody_. But it was clear that grown-up men were prepared to stick theirs in all sorts of places; and they must do it for pleasure. And if they stuck it in other males they were gay—but not gay as Adam saw it: there had been no kissing; no affection; no friendship even.

As they walked home, Raymond remarked: "Waste of time this evening."

"Yeah," said Adam, but he knew that it was _not_ a waste of time: he had marked Rowle and Jugson down as mere criminals; but tonight, the perversion of something beautiful crystallised a conviction in Adam's mind: unlike the Reverend Woodman, Adam had encountered pure Evil.

A couple of weeks later, Jugson turned up for one of Rowle's mouth-sessions. It was a different boy: a small, frail-looking blond who might be anywhere between fourteen and eighteen.

This time there was some conversation: Rowle told the boy: "Strip."

As the naked boy knelt to give Rowle his mouth, Adam saw that Jugson had his old man out. It was so big that Adam thought it must be a plastic joke: half as long again as Rowle's and twice as thick.

Then he realised that it was real.

Jugson approached the boy.

Merciful Heaven, was he going to bum the boy? To put that monster inside the tiny bottom. They would have to stop it somehow.

But Jugson merely wanted to look at the bottom while he stroked his old man. Ah, this was what some of the boys at school called wanking.

After a minute's stroking, splashes of white watery stuff came out of Jugson's old man and landed on the boy's bottom.

Rowle had finished too, and the boy started to dress.

Then came the conclusion of the conversation: Rowle told the boy: "Quick."

The boy left, and the two men started talking,

Adam was furious.

"That's not gay!" he said, drawing _Eh?s_ from his friends.

He turned to the two startled boys.

"Gay's about being kind to people, and kissing them," he said, "Kiss me now."

"Are you kidding?" said Raymond.

Ralph looked stunned into silence.

"No. Kiss me Raymond; Kiss me Ralph."

"That's gay!" said Raymond.

"Of course it's gay. _I'm_ gay, and I want to kiss you."

"This is horrible."

"It is _not_ horrible. It's the best response to Evil. If Raymond won't kiss me, how about you, Ralph?"

He turned to Ralph, who was looking aghast, and who now stirred himself to say: "Keep away! I don't want you anywhere near me! You're a weirdo!"

He saw that the two evil men were leaving.

"I'm the _goodie_, Ralph; I'm your _friend_," he said, "Now I'm going to follow Jugson. I'll be careful. I'll remember we must keep it secret till we can learn who Neville is."

He crept downstairs and waited until a few seconds after the door of the adjacent house had closed before stepping outside.

He was still so angry at the wickedness of Rowle and Jugson that the emotional backwash of the scene with his friends was pushed out of his mind.

Then it hit him, but such was his internal honesty that his sudden feelings of guilt and worry were accompanied by amusement that the three boys had conducted their intense scene in whispers.

Jugson was fifty yards ahead of him, but there was something not quite right: he looked in some way fainter than he should, as though a mist had come down; but there was no mist: it was a bright June evening.

Something else was strange: Jugson was talking . . . talking with pauses, as though conducting a conversation.

Adam closed the gap in an attempt to hear Jugson's words.

Suddenly, it seemed to him that Rowle was next to Jugson, pointing his remote control stick at Adam.

There was a flash of light, then . . . he was Nothing.

_**8**_

The nurse brought him tea and biscuits, and allowed him his little walk to the loo. He noticed that this hospital was not as clean as St Mungo's, and recalled his father's remark that people seemed to leave hospital with more diseases than when they entered.

He was tired, and more than ready to be tucked in for the night.

But his brain was racing with the task of putting together all the things that had happened—happened to Noun and Adam, for he was a single boy again, not a gay loonie on the run but a gay muggle who had a mother and father.

He said it to himself: _I am gay!_

There was no guilt; only a worry that his mother and father would be upset.

He was gay, and he had shared kisses with Raymond, Ralph and Luke. He had found an interest in the penises of boys and men. Noun had taught him that even boys as familiar and ordinary-looking as Raymond and Ralph had their own loveliness.

His life had changed, and next day he must ensure that Neville's life did _not_ change.

He reviewed the known facts:

Next day, Neville Longbottom would arrive on the Hogwarts Express at King's Cross Station, Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, at six PM. (Query: what did the platform number signify?)

There, he would be met by his grandmother, Mrs Longbottom.

They would take a muggle taxi to St Mungo's, to meet Neville's parents, (Query: why had Rowle and Jugson always called it a _muggle_ taxi—surely, there were no loonie taxis? Query: Neville's parents: patients or staff?)

An organisation called the Death Eaters, giving allegiance to someone they called the Dark Lord, intended to stun Mrs Longbottom, and kidnap (or imperious) Neville.

The Death Eaters had decided that there would be too many people at King's Cross, so intended to carry out the assault as Neville and Mrs Longbottom emerged from the taxi at St Mungo's.

Adam mulled over his position.

Surprisingly, the authorities at St Mungo's had notified neither the police or the Reverend and Mrs Woodman of Adam's presence. Discounting some sort of alliance between the loonies and their keepers, Adam assumed that this was due to Human Rights, or Mental Health laws—he knew that both had some wrinkles that were, in themselves, loonie.

As long as he pretended amnesia for the period from when he had been ray-gunned by Rowle to when he had banged his head in the market, neither the police nor the muggle hospital would realise that he had escaped from the bin.

Therefore, he could not tip the police off and rely on them to save Neville: how could an amnesiac know about it? Alternatively, why should they believe an escaped lunatic?

He would go to King's Cross himself, then, and warn the Longbottoms.

Happy with his plan, he went to sleep contentedly, his mind rambling aimlessly round minor mysteries: why did the Death Eaters refer to Neville as a _pureblood_? And what was a _mudblood_? And what was a _dumbell_ _door_?

_**9**_

He woke up as fresh as a daisy.

He was one of four children in a little sub-ward. He pottered around his bed-space, went for a pee, and sat down by the night-nurse, who was called Neville—a good omen, surely.

No, he didn't know where Adam's clothes were; no, Adam couldn't have a shower; no, he would have to wait until breakfast for food.

"You should've been a doctor—Doctor No," said Adam.

"How about yes to my Burdock and Yarrow Tea?" asked Neville.

He made an infusion, and gave a mug to Adam.

"Not bad!" said Adam, "Thanks very much."

"All part of the outward care of my profession," said Neville.

"_Boy drank outward care_," said Adam, taking a sip. "That's an anagram of _Burdock and Yarrow Tea_," he added.

"Aint nothing wrong with your mind!" laughed Neville.

Nothing wrong with Neville's either, Adam thought; the most horrible thing in the world was the existence of sick or unhappy children; and the noblest profession was their tender loving care.

"How did they twig my ID?" asked Adam.

"Are you kidding?" said Neville, "You've been front page news for weeks."

"How can they keep no-news on the front-page?"

"They report no news in a small article, and next to it put a large article—totally unconnected—that would be in bad taste—about religious cults, paedophile rings, suicide in the young, insanity in priests. Jason Swift was a favourite—you know him?"

Adam nodded: "May Jason be forever blessed, and may his murderers bear the mark of Cain for eternity."

"Amen," said Neville.

They moved to more cheerful subjects, talking and laughing until the day staff arrived, when they shook hands and said goodbye.

Adam asked the Sister when his clothes would be back from the laundry, only to be told that the police were holding them for forensic medical examination.

He reverse-charged his parents, and they said they were bringing in more clothes anyway.

The doctor examined him, and said: "You might as well go home as soon as your parents arrive."

"The Police are waiting to interview Adam," said the Sister.

"Well, after the interview," said the Doctor.

When his parents came, Adam was allowed a shower and sat in a consulting-room with his parents for his police interview.

A lady sergeant and a male constable carried out the interview.

It should have been brief, but they kept recycling the same questions: where had he been; who had he been with; what had he been doing.

To all these the answer was _I don't remember_.

There were a few wild-card questions: what was he doing in Borough Market; why was he disguised as an Asian; why were there forty-two slips of paper with names and addresses in his pocket.

_I don't remember_.

They gave up at last.

"Can I have my forty-two slips of paper, please?" he asked.

"Ah, so you admit they're yours!" said the constable, with the air of Poirot in the last chapter.

"Not in the least," said Adam, "But if there's no evidence of theft, we must assume that they _are_ mine; isn't that so, Dad?"

"We've always brought up Adam to have respect for God's Law," said the Reverend Woodman, "And strongly resent the false accusation of theft against him."

"Authorities and authority figures, should be reputable examples to an eleven-year-old boy," said Mrs Woodman.

Before this onslaught, the police retired, remarking that the disputed slips would probably be delivered to the Woodmans shortly.

The Hospital Administrator arrived, accompanied by a host of other people of importance. He suggested that, given the mass of newsmen, the senior Woodmans drive home in their car, while Adam was smuggled out of the back door into an ambulance.

As vicars of the poorer parishes in London could rarely afford cars, the amended plan was for all three to use the sneaky exit.

This was put on hold by the arrival of the Chief medical man, and his own horde of underlings. Concern was expressed for Adam's health, but it was apparent that the chief problem was that the medical staff had learned of Adam's amnesia from the police, and not from their own clinical work. The threat of the most terrible disease known to the medical profession hung in the air: compensation.

The result was that Adam spent a day undergoing brainwave tests—would they detect the brainprint, he wondered—and interviews with all manner of psychos.

He considered sending his parents to save Neville Longbottom, but excellent scholars though they were, they were not likely to be able to think on their feet, so he sent them home, having cobbed a couple of twenties.

The hospital's plan was to keep him in for a few days' observation: he would have to do a runner.

Around teatime, there was a window during which he was not being pestered. He slipped out of the side door, where people went to smoke, and found a taxi.

Travelling across London in the rush-hour was desperately slow, and the taxi driver voiced another problem: "I think we're being followed. You're the kid that went missing, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I'm on my way home; we thought this was the best way to lose the press."

"You were wrong."

"Plan B then: drop me off at the nearest tube, please. Have a couple of quid ready for my fare,"

When the taxi stopped, he gave the driver twenty, took the change, hared into the station, and caught the first train.

He took a triangular route to King's Cross. No-one recognized him: they had not worked out that the boy who had turned up disguised as an Asian would not look much like the boy whose face had stared out at them from newspapers and television.

All this took time, and he emerged to the busy King's Cross at five to six. He hoped the train had not arrived early. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was a problem, and he wondered whether it might not be best to hang around at the taxi rank.

After a bit of dithering, he went to have a look at the area around Platforms Nine and Ten. There were a few dozen people, mostly couples, some with children, standing facing the platforms. They did not have luggage: they were obviously meeting people. They looked slightly odd. Their eyes were focused on a stretch of blank wall between the platforms.

This was all encouraging. He looked for any single old lady who might be Mrs Longbottom.

As he concentrated, an extraordinary thing happened: there weren't dozens, but _hundreds_ of people meeting the train; and they weren't slightly odd: they were _very, very_ odd. They were dressed in cloaks of many colours, with every conceivable garment, or lack of garment, underneath. There were all sorts of hats, but a popular choice was the conical effort commonly known as a witch's or wizard's hat.

The sudden manifestation of such a totally unexpected collection of humanity—the phrase _Hare_ _Krishna_ flashed into his mind—in such an everyday context was enough to send his mind reeling. But the most staggering thing was the fact that _his brainprint worked in real life_—not just on TV tubes.

And staggering was the word: in attempting to keep his balance, he barged into a man who looked almost normal under his cloak.

"Steady on," he said, "It'll be here any minute. Meeting your brother or sister?"

"Neville Longbottom," said Adam.

"Ah yes; gryffindor five—or should I say six? We're meeting—"

But Adam never found out who they were meeting: there was a satisfied murmur all around and children appeared: multi-coloured children, pushing trolleys bearing cabin trunks, and birdcages holding owls. _Owls?_ The world was going mad.

He was beginning to panic.

He looked towards the platforms. Children, trolleys and owls were swarming from a position between Platforms Nine and Ten. _Kids were walking through the wall_.

That was when he decided that he was the real thing: a full-blown loonie; he belonged in St Mungo's as much as Gilroy. He actually gave a lunatic cackle.

Paradoxically, the knowledge of his own insanity got rid of the panic. He decided to accept the truth, and get on with things.

He wandered slowly, and tried removing his brainprint. Yes: most of the crowd vanished, those people who remained being an ordinary-looking collection of Britishers—though bowler hats appeared on a few women as well men .

He turned his brainprint on, and found himself next to a family that he had just carefully walked around without having noticed.

He touched the mans arm. There was solid contact: his hallucinations affected at least three senses.

"Do you know Neville Longbottom?" he asked.

"Aint seen him yet," said the man, "I didn't know there was a Longbottom Junior?"

"Can you see his grandmother, please?"

"Augusta? She's certainly here."

The man scanned the crowd, but before he could locate Mrs Longbottom, a voice called: _There he is!_

Adam turned and saw a dozen men, some carrying cameras, running towards him.

His brain may have been defective, but he was still quick-witted: he ran away from the men and cowered behind one of the larger genuine families. But they could still see him and veered towards him.

Sherlockian Logic told him that he'd eliminated the possible, so had to try the impossible: he crouched down in the midst of an extremely weird-looking family.

There was a sense that things had calmed down: _Where's he gone?_ asked a voice. A reporter passed by, and seemed to look straight through Adam.

Weirder and weirder. Other people were sharing his hallucinations.

"You alright son? Those muggles looking for you?" said the paterfamilias.

So they were all loonies too. He might have expected that, though he couldn't fathom why their hallucinations should divide themselves into the sane and insane.

"I'm looking for Neville Longbottom," he said.

"Just gone towards the muggle taxis," said the man. "Come with me and you'll be under the disillusionment."

"You wait here, Mary," he told his wife.

They walked across the concourse, and none of the pressmen seemed to notice them. Neither did the police, dozens of whom were spreading into the station.

"There's Neville!" said the man, "Just getting in to that taxi. You'd better run."

Adam ran towards the taxi, and saw a round bottom; a friendly, welcoming bottom. He could not resist laying a hand on it, as he entered the cab.

He slumped on the seat, and found himself facing a stern-looking old lady. Her hair was in the tidiest bun Adam had ever seen. He supposed that not one of the iron-grey hairs would dare to move out of place.

As the taxi moved off, she stared at him silently.

Adam spoke. His emotions were so intense that it came out as a shout: "DON'T GO TO ST MUNGO'S!"

_**10**_

Mrs Longbottom's mouth tightened.

Adam felt as though he were a tiny child at a tyrannical Victorian school.

"And why should I not visit my son and his wife?" she demanded.

"They're going to stun you and kidnap Neville," he said.

"Kidnap?"

"They called it imperious." _Like_ _you_ he thought.

"The impudence! Who are these people?"

"Two of them are called Rowle and Jugson."

"Ha!" she said, "Jugson's out of it, anyway. He recently had the misfortune to meet my grandson."

"There _were_ six of us, Gran," said Neville, "_And_ reinforcements."

Adam looked at Neville. His face was as round as his bottom. He had taken—Good Lord, a _toad_!—from a pocket, and was stroking its back. Adam took an immediate liking to Neville. The feeling seemed to be mutual: the boys smiled at each other.

But Mrs Longbottom was in command.

She took out a stick like the one that Rowle had used for counter-surveillance—no, not a stick . . . a wand . . . a _magic_ _wand_!

Adam was beginning to enjoy himself.

"Neville," commanded Mrs Longbottom, "Protection on first. I'll take on Rowle. You fire fragmenting stunning hexes at the others. How many will there be? What's your name, boy?"

"Adam, Miss. I don't know how many, Miss."

"They'll probably bolt as soon as we show resistance." There was an unspoken _unfortunately_ at the end of this sentence, Adam felt. She was a real warrior.

"We're nearly there, Gran," said Neville, taking out his own magic wand, and stowing away his toad.

Adam had only seen a fire exit for St Mungo's and had expected the front entrance to be grand—Victorian gothic or Palladian classical.

Instead, the taxi stopped at a large, old-fashioned, red-brick department store called Purge &amp; Dowse Ltd.

"There's Rowle!" said Adam, but the Longbottoms were already out the taxi, pointing their magic wands and shouting. Rowle appeared to have brought two more of the death eaters.

There were flashing lights and bangs. People in the street stared in amazement. The taxi driver told Adam that this would mean Waiting Time.

Rowle had vanished; so had one of his henchmen; the remaining baddie was lying on the pavement unconscious.

Before Adam had time to take in what had happened, four men in suits and ties had appeared from nowhere. They all had magic wands at the ready.

The one in charge ordered: "Bronco! Thaddeus! Confund and obliviate!"

The two youngest men moved in a widening semicircle from Purge &amp; Dowse outwards, waving their magic wands and reciting what were, Adam realised, magic spells.

People were carrying on with their lives without noticing anything unusual—confunded and obliviated, thought Adam.

He got out of the taxi, politely asking the driver to wait.

The boss opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs Longbottom got in first: "It was Rowle," she said.

"Damn!" said the boss.

He looked at the—was it a body?—and commented: "Small fry."

"This was an ambush, Proudfoot," said Mrs Longbottom, "What is the aurus department coming too if it can't pick up such a basic attack?"

"We can't investigate every apparition to St Mungo's at peak visiting time, Augusta, though I admit we should have detected the continued presence."

"Obvious lurking, Proudfoot. And the ambush might have succeeded had it not been for this boy's warning—a powerful wizard, may I add, who has not been picked up by your Ministry."

Me? A powerful wizard? thought Adam with amazement, and immediate excitement. A fantastic new world was opening up—or was he still hallucinating?

"There I must correct you, Augusta," said Proudfoot, "He was in St Mungo's but absconded; the Ministry's been searching for days."

"With as much success as with the search for Rowle."

"Is that man dead?" asked Adam, unable to contain his anxiety.

"He'll live. Stupefied by my grandson," said Mrs Longbottom, "What's your full name?"

"Adam Woodman."

"Thank you for your warning, Adam. How did you get on to Rowle."

"I was following Jugson to see where he lived, and Rowle got me. He was invisible so I didn't know to hide. The German doctor said it was a gross confundus for a ten-year-old, but I'm eleven now."

At that moment, three people came from the direction of Purge &amp; Dowse. Adam immediately identified the man in front as being of the genus _Hospital Administrator_.

"Ah, Adam—" he began.

But Adam turned to Mrs Longbottom, saying: "Please don't make me go back there! I'm okay now. I just want to go home."

Neville gripped his arm, as though defying the world to imperious the boy. Adam liked Neville.

"Of course, you shall go home," said Mrs Longbottom, "Where do you live?"

"The East End," said Adam.

"We'll take the taxi. Proudfoot, send an MPC to wait outside Adam's house for us. Make it Mrs Files; she's the best; and don't drone on about Overtime. Neville, we'll leave Frank and Alice until tomorrow."

She turned to Adam, and said: "MPC is Muggle Parent Counsellor. It's sometimes overwhelming to learn that your child is a witch or wizard."

"Please, Miss," said Adam, "What does muggle mean."

"Anyone not of the magical world. Capital M to show respect."

Adam laughed.

"What's so funny boy?"

"I escaped from the loonie-bin with a man who was always using the term. I thought he meant anyone who wasn't a loonie."

"We are not a loonie-bin," said the Hospital Administrator, "We are—"

"St Mungo's is a jolly good hospital," said Mrs Longbottom, "Despite being top-heavy in administration."

"And, Adam: if you have any information about Gilderoy Lockhart—" persisted the Hospital Administrator.

"Never heard of him," said Adam.

Adam gave Mr Proudfoot the address of the house where Rowle and Jugson and the teenage boys had met, and the taxi set off for Bow, reaching Adam's street to see a gang of pressmen—and women now, Adam noticed—waiting outside the Rectory gate.

"Would you stop please?" Adam told the driver.

"Reporters," he told Mrs Longbottom.

She paid off the driver, took her wand out, and led them through the crowd, which appeared not to notice them, though casually parting to let them through. One of the crowd noticed though: "Hello Mrs Longbottom," she said, "Hello Adam; Hello Neville."

The Reverend and Mrs Woodman were overjoyed to see Adam again—too overjoyed to be surprised at his companions.

There was an exhibition of magic; an explanation of the magical world; and a very long discussion between Mrs Files and the Reverend Woodman.

Adam was very impressed by Mrs Files. She was a skilled expositor; and excellent at pre-empting incipient panic; most of all, she had the theological skills to persuade the vicar that magic was not in the least incompatible with Church of England doctrine.

At the end of the evening everything was settled.

"See you at Hogwarts," said Neville, shaking hands. Neville's hand felt like the inside of a banana skin, but Adam still liked him.

He lay in bed afterwards, completely happy to be a wizard, except . . . what did the magical world—the non-death eater world, anyway— think of Gay?

_**11**_

It was a magnificent last summer in the Muggle world. Adam went back to school for the last three weeks of term. He was a hero to his schoolmates, though not to the pressmen who gathered at the school gate, only to be thoroughly Confunded by a pretty young Obliviator—Adam recognised him as Thaddeus, who had been at St Mungo's.

Raymond and Ralph were not in the least envious of Adam's scholarship grant for private schooling. They offered him any part of their anatomies that he desired, but Adam assured them that his gay outburst was merely a reaction to what he had seen on the CCTV. "Let's talk about it in a couple of years," he told them.

His parents took him for a three week visit to the Holy Land—a lifetime ambition for his father. Adam had to button his lips: he could see and hear places, people and beasts that were Unknowable to his parents. But for his recent experiences, he would have assumed himself to be a loonie.

He visited Gilroy at the squat, and found that he was still Asian, and, with the assistance of the other squatters was achieving success as a fortune-teller, touring the London fairs and markets in a fifty-year-old camper-van.

He handed over the famous forty-two slips of paper, and told the squatters that the recipients should be sent twenty five pounds each out of Gilroy's allowance.

Luke was out on his _bar work_, so Adam had to make do with passing on his love—he would have liked a goodbye kiss and cuddle.

He received two kiss-and-cuddles in the end, though: when they said goodbye on the night before Adam's departure, Raymond and Ralph insisted on goodbye kisses. Adam would be happy if he found friends at Hogwarts half as loyal as these two.

Then it was the Hogwarts Express.

Adam found a place with some other first-years, and leant out of the window to say goodbye to his parents. They were upbeat and encouraging, but Adam felt they were putting a brave face on things.

"Don't get too upset that your son's a wizard," he told them, "Things don't always turn out the way we expect them."

"No, no, dear boy," said his father, "We're proud of you, and it could have been much worse: you could, for example, have turned out homosexual."

Oh.

_**12**_

Adam was Sorted into Ravenclaw, which alarmed him, because that was where the brainboxes were meant to be—still, Mrs Longbottom _had_ called him _a powerful wizard_, so perhaps he would be able to catch up.

He quickly made friends with an effeminate boy called Christopher Bloom—mainly because, though there was no bullying and little mockery, he felt that some of the other boys treated Christopher as a figure defined solely by his gender-issues.

By the end of their first week, Adam realised that Christopher was a genuine intellectual, though he insisted on being addressed as _Chrissie_, and referred to—like every other male in the place—as _she_.

At his last school, they had kept their underpants on for PE, so Adam had never seen the loins of other boys; because of his terror of Gay, he had never even peeped when they were having a pee.

Now, the sight of Chrissie and the other three boys wandering naked between dormitory and bathroom had a liberating effect—especially as _all_ the boys eyed each other up. It was mere interest, of course, but interest was surely not a million miles from attraction. Perhaps being gay was a matter of degree rather than essence.

Through Chrissie, Adam became friends with Tintin, though when the two boy/girls convened on transvestic and cosmetic matters, he usually left them to it.

Saturday nights at Hogwarts allowed the opportunity for energetic games in the corridors.

"Do you want to go somewhere private?" asked Chrissie.

"Yes please," said Adam.

They now openly admired each other in the dormitory and showers, but had stayed hands-off in deference to the sensibilities of the other three boys.

Adam knew what was coming, and found the prospect pleasing.

Chrissie led them to a basement store room, where they had a long kiss.

This was absolute Heaven, and he wished it could have lasted for ever—much better than with Raymond, Ralph or Luke. It was called snogging, said Chrissie.

Then it was pants down and an exploration of each other's genitalia.

They were interrupted by two bigger boys who allowed Adam and Chrissie to watch them wanking. One of the boys, Craig from Adam's own House, shot semen or cum or spunk for about eight feet—putting Gilderoy and Jugson in the shade.

Afterwards, they let off steam by joining in the jolly, lively corridor-games.

That night, Chrissie whispered: "Do you want to sleep together tonight?"

"Let's wait and see what happens tomorrow," said Adam.

_Tomorrow_ was the first meeting of Juniors in Gays Support—JIGS—which turned out to be one of the great events of Adam's life.

But before that, the Nine O'Clock Club was announced. Adam and Chrissie signed up before Adam Watts-Poxon had finished explaining what it was.

After the JIGS meeting, all Adam Woodman's doubts about the magical world's attitude to gayness were removed.

He was convinced that, despite individual differences in character, gays had a distinct cultural and social identity. Gays were as human, normal and likeable as any other group. They had a right to be treated like any other group, though Adam accepted the desirability for discretion: gay snogging, for example, was best carried out in even even darker places than boy/girl snogging.

After his first full week at Hogwarts Adam was happy and quietly confident about the academic, social and sexual future.

On Wednesday, he learned that, in six days time, he would be spending a night with the fabulously beautiful Hufflepuff second-year, Gideon Buchanan.

He asked around, and learned that Buchanan had spent much of his first-year leisure time in luring or cajoling Seniors into lavatory cubicles, and sucking out their semen.

He was pleased to be coupled with such a free-thinking glamour-puss and hoped that Gideon would not be too disappointed that he himself had been coupled with a boy whose testicles were still dry. He also hoped that Gideon was dry himself, as Adam had earmarked big-shooting Craig as the one he'd like to give him his first physical exposure to semen.

At JIGS on the Sunday, David Ward had told them about bumming. It was fascinating, but a bit premature for Adam: he didn't expect to do that until his sex-urge arrived.

Then Tuesday came.

Adam raced through his homework, and prepared to set off.

The third-year, Paul Grindell, approached. "Shall we go up together?" he said.

"Okay," said Adam, slightly surprised that Paul hadn't gone up with his partner for the night, Tom Leggatt.

"Are you nervous, Dear?" asked Chrissie, "You needn't be. You've got a lovely girl taking you to up meet another lovely girl."

"I'm not nervous at all Chrissie," said Adam, "In fact, Paul looks more nervous than me."

"And don't _you_ worry, darling," said Chrissie to Paul, "Tom Leggat's really kind; and she's got _beautiful_ hair. I'd give anything to have hair like hers—or yours, for that matter, Paulikins."

Tom had shoulder-length hair in a rich chestnut shade; Paul Grindell had slightly shorter hair; straight and straw-coloured.

"Come on Adam," said Paul.

"I expect a report at two minutes past six," said Chrissie.

Adam and Paul walked up the stairs in silence.

_**12**_

Gideon Buchanan was waiting for them.

"Adam!" he said, "I couldn't have asked for a better pick. I clocked you at the Sorting and hoped you'd come to Hufflepuff."

"I bet you say that to all the boys," laughed Adam.

"Or girls, as your mate Bloom would say."

"You go in boys or girls or whatever," said Paul, "I'll wait for Tom."

Adam and Gideon went inside the toilet and raced upstairs. They jumped onto a bed, drew the curtains and started stripping off.

"Isn't this brilliant!" said Gideon, "You and me. All night."

They had a brief kiss, and lay on the bed, looking into each other's eyes.

"How do you want to play it, Adam?" asked Gideon.

"You've had infinitely more experience than me," said Adam.

"Don't exaggerate."

"I'm not: anything divided by zero is . . ."

"Alright, alright. But it's _your_ fantasy-into-reality night. Why don't you just tell me what to do, and I'll do it? Absolutely _anything_!"

"Well what I'd really like is to . . . explore you . . . to learn every detail of your body. I've never been so close to a boy before."

"Get as close as you like, Adam."

Adam got Gideon to stretch out, face-up on the bed.

He took his glasses off—not needed for close-up work.

"Why, Miss Woodman, you're beautiful!" said Gideon, in a falsetto.

Interesting: though a fullblood, Gideon had obviously seen some of Hollywood's crappy films—or was that tautology?

He began with Gideon's head, examining each bit, then touching, pressing and stroking.

Gideon had a Caucasian mother and a mixed-race father. He reckoned himself five eighths Caucasian, but no-one can really be sure of their heritage.

Gideon's basic colour was best described as Light Umber, but there were an amazing range of colours when you looked closely: carmines, violets, ochres.

He had a gorgeous face, but Adam soon realised that, if you fancy someone, you fancy all the bits that combine to _make_ that someone.

How, for example, could Gideon's ears be so gorgeous, when other boys' ears were either unnoticeable or comic, and girls' ears repulsive?

"What yer thinking about?" asked Gideon.

"How beautiful your head is," said Adam, "I'd just got as far as the way your neck goes thin, and then widens to meet the shoulders."

"You aint so bad in that area yourself, Adam."

"Compliments later. Don't interrupt men at work."

Adam worked his way methodically from Gideon's marvellous shoulders, down his arms, assessing every curve, running his fingers and palms over the smooth surfaces, and feeling the bony protuberances of the joints.

He had just got on to the wondrously smooth armpits when he became aware of a regular pulsation coming from the other bed.

He realised that Tom and Paul had been talking for some time without Adam noticing them. Now he could tell that Tom was giving Paul a proper shagging. He had one of his insights: the two boys were used to standing up in a lavatory cubicle. His spirits sang with joy for the boys: this was probably their debut in the lying-down position.

He worked his way over Gideon's chest, paying special attention to the two tiny nipples; then the tummy, with its tiny belly-button.

Everything so far had been miraculous, but now came the _really_ interesting bit.

There was a hillock of smooth flesh, out of which Gideon's thin penis sprang seamlessly.

Adam pulled back the last little bit of foreskin to expose fully the beautiful crimson lake acorn.

He carefully touched every bit of the penis's surface. It was a work of art: the silky surface; the underlying sponginess; and at its heart, a hard, steel-like core that pulsed as Adam squeezed it.

And the colours: how could these people call themselves _black_? The penis alone was a rainbow of subtle shades.

Then underneath, the dark skin of the ballsack, wrinkled like a placid sea, and carrying the small, rubbery balls, no bigger than baby tomatoes.

It was a highspot of Adam's life. After years of worrying about being gay, chance had brought him to the Nine O'Clock club, which had found him a boy who was willing and eager to be explored.

He spent a long time on Gideon's bits and pieces, before moving down to the legs. There was something special about boys' knees: fragile and cutely loveable; and the toes: each toe with its own character, and all as alluring as babies' toes.

He flipped Gideon over, and worked upwards perhaps a little quicker than he ought to.

The lure was, of course, the bottom. Adam had admired bottoms obscured by trousers for a long time; and four nude bottoms for seventeen days. But now, he was allowed to _touch_. Or was he? Just for a milli-second, he had a sense that thunder and lightning would explode with the first contact.

Laughing, he placed one hand firmly on each of Gideon's attractive buttocks, and started manipulating in every conceivable way. He spent a long time with his hands pressed flat and moving each buttock in a small circle.

He might have spent forever in this wonderful operation, had not each revolution revealed Gideon's anus.

Adam had never seen an anus before—not even his own; but he knew it was reputed to be the centre of gay life. Whether that was true or not, Gideon's was attractive: a spidery little crinkle, with a various shades of brown, yellow and red, mixed together in different ratios.

He dismissed all thought of poo from his mind, and reached out a finger to touch it; then stroke it; then squidge it about a little. He wanted very much to explore the interior. "May I stick it in, please, Gideon?" he asked as a week ago he might have said: "May I have another biscuit, please, Mummy?"

"I told you absolutely anything, sweet boy," said Gideon.

Adam wetted his finger and pressed; then a bit harder; then he was inside.

"It's like a baptism," he whispered, "I'm a real gay now."

As if to confirm the significance of the moment, Tom started shagging Paul again. The anus was certainly the centre of gay life for Tom.

Again, Adam might have lingered forever, but he felt sleepy, and wasn't sure that falling asleep with your finger inside a rectum was quite _comme il faut_.

Besides, there was Gideon's unusually bony back to deal with.

This took longer than expected, because Adam had to have his back examined by Gideon. Provisionally, they decided that both were probably not abnormal. Provisionally, Adam thought Nature had given Gideon the better deal.

Then, sleep became needful for both boys. Adam arranged them in an intimate, affectionate cuddle.

"Are you happy?" said Gideon.

"Totally," said Adam, and he went to sleep to the gentle lullaby of Tom giving Paul what for . . .

. . . and it was the same sound that woke him up in the morning.

Poor Paul Grindell: his anus must be really sore. If he did a big poo—Adam stopped himself: he wasn't going to think of poo in connection with bottoms.

They hadn't had time for a decent kiss last night, and Gideon led the way now: he was as willing and eager as Adam.

At first they went for it bull-at-a-gate, à la Chrissie, but Adam slowed them down, and they gently explored each others mouths, sometimes with complete immobility. At intervals, they reverted to ferocious sucking-with-tongue-flailing.

It was all so wonderful, that Adam found it hard to stop.

They were late leaving—half an hour late by the rules of the Club.

Adam went straight to Christopher's bed and climbed between the curtains. His friend was sitting up in bed, waiting for him.

"How'd it go, Adam, darling?"

"You'll never guess what we did, Chrissie."

"What?"

"_This_."

_**Epilogue**_

The Jiggers were comfortable with their bodies, and, even though the Nine O'Clock cub was defunct, didn't need practical tuition about sex. They asked if the Christmas treat could be an orgy, but David Ward gave them a resounding no.

Instead, it was decided that such Jiggers as wished would create some sort of performance for the others.

Adam and Chrissie decided to do poetry recited with a musical accompaniment, and sat down in creative mutuality.

But before the treat, Adam had to write a letter:

_Dear Mum &amp; Dad,_

_Things are going very well. I've been given an exemption from English and Latin, for private study with top-up coaching. Mrs English said I was at third-year standard. I think something similar is likely to happen in Maths._

_The magic is going well too. Professor Slughorn said I was an excellent Potioneer, and was I related to the Lord Gabriell Wudeman who created the Selective Earplug Potion in the Seventeenth Century. Is that possible? I was worried about DADA because my marks were getting lower, but it turns out that this was to reduce the disparity with the Slytherins, who are not too hot, and were embarrassing Professor Snape._

_Please can I stay with Gideon at his home in Esher for Sandown Park for a few days between Christmas and New Year? I have told you a lot about Gideon, but I never mentioned that we're lovers. I/he am/is homosexual, and he/I is/am my/his boyfriend. I hope you are not upset. I still pray, and I think God is happy for us._

_We are having our Christmas Party this week. I'll tell you about it when I see you._

_Your Loving son, Adam XXX_

He left unsaid his lack of capability on a broomstick. That was embarrassing. So too was his gayness, but that _had_ to be said. And the most impossible thing was, of course never to be said: _Pray that your son may receive his sex-urge soon_.

The Jiggers Christmas treat was as much fun as expected. Wardy allowed just enough Butterbeer to oil the boys' wits without impairing their faculties (_I've still got all my facilities_ said Tintin).

Adam was to recite a bestiary of Muggle animals—clean, but hopefully witty; Chrissie was doing magical creatures—smutty, and with actions. They had picked the brains of half the boys at Hogwarts for juicy references that Chrissie could include.

Last year's Jiggers were invited as guests, which meant that Tintin Wilkes and Caerwen Morgan from Ravenclaw were in attendance.

There were cheers as the Ravenclaw first-years appeared on stage: Adam as a sweet little choirboy; and Chrissie stark naked, with a member that varied in stiffness according to the context of the recitation.

They alternated verses: Adam backed by lyrically Schubertian music; Chrissie with Hip-Hop:

_Boers believe that, on the whole,_

_AARDVARK never hurt a soul._

_ACROMANTULA's a star,_

_Defeated by the Weasley car._

_Read if you can't bear a bare BEAR_

_The __**Daily Express**__, as Rupert's there._

_Want to take a fearsome risk?_

_Try looking at the BASILISK._

_When CAMEL takes tea at the zoo,_

_The Keeper asks: "One hump or two?"_

_You'd like a CENTAUR? Here's the clincher:_

_Can you take a twenty-incher?_

_There's a pet-shop; let us in go:_

"_**Why's**__ that DOGGIE in the window?"_

_DEMENTOR's shagged you? Don't be silly!_

_Whoever said they had a willy?_

_ECHIDNA, like the clucking hen,_

_Lays eggs—but not for gentlemen._

_Tintin, for whom we'll shortly mourn_

_Is pushing up ERUMPENT horn._

_The FROG according to its whim_

_Will crawl or croak or jump or swim._

_FANG never minds his Ps and Qs,_

_He licks your face, and spunks your shoes._

"_Cor blimey, Noah, wot a larf!"_

_Said Mrs Noah, seeing a GIRAFFE._

_There's one on whom we all depend:_

_How nice to have a GOBLIN friend._

_Fried HADDOCK I commend to you_

_As worthy of a chip or two._

_Buckbeak, known as Witherwings,_

_A HIPPOGRIFF who never stings._

_IMPALA is an antelope;_

_Confuse with Vlad, and give up hope._

_Around six inches; never limp:_

_Of course, I speak about an IMP._

_Let's hope the JAGUAR's a fad,_

_To drive one's good, to wear one bad._

_Nicknamed JUMBO: pachyderm,_

_And syphon for Ron Weasley's sperm._

_KANGAROO jumps like a rocket,_

_With little Joey in her pocket._

_He came from Arabella's stud_

_Did Crookshanks, with his KNEAZLE blood._

_In Peru, an Inca Drinker_

_Said: "A LLAMA! This one's pinker!"_

_Even Finnigan's wee horn_

_Is too big for the LEPRECHAUN._

_A MOLE rose at the crack of dawn_

_And went to decorate the lawn._

_Tibby's beast is called MOUNTJOY,_

_And terrifies each tight-arsed boy._

_Amphibians of great repute:_

_The Crested, Smooth and Palmate NEWT._

_NIFFLER hunts for golden treasure;_

_Browner rings give __**my**__ nose pleasure._

_When tawny OWL asks: "Who? Who? Whooo?"_

_There comes a squeak: "I'm __**not**__ a shrew!"_

_A question OGRE always begs:_

_What have you got between your legs?_

_PENGUIN dresses like a nun,_

_Which goes to show his sense of fun._

_It burns, and dies, and rises better for_

_Life: the PHOENIX is a metaphor._

_What can I say? To be succinct,_

_Men came and QUAGGA is extinct._

_QUINTAPEDS who live on Drear,_

_Have five limbs; so have I, my dear._

_The REINDEER's known as Caribou;_

_Now here's a Christmas how-di-doo!_

_The red-nosed REINDEER, Deano's joy,_

_Admired by many a first-year boy._

_The SNAIL is slow, except in France,_

_Where Darwinism makes it prance._

_The SPHINX's verse, within the maze,_

_Like ours, not worthy of your praise._

_Look! There's a common or garden TOAD!_

_Where? Squashed flat upon the road!_

_Of TROLLS at length the pundit chatters,_

_But skips the bit that really matters._

_Though rain may trickle down your hair,_

_UMBRELLABIRD will never share._

_The UNICORN is justly famed,_

_But, having two horns, is misnamed._

_Be sure the VAMPIRE BAT'll drain yer,_

_But, strangely, not in Transylvania._

_Sexy VEELAS—unambivalent;_

_Please, someone find the male equivalent._

"_Leave it be, and it won't sting."_

_What rot! The WASP stings __**anything**__!_

_Common WELSH GREEN, beast of Wales,_

_Or rent boy's cock in Cardiff sales._

_A snob? I'd say there's none so sniffy as_

_A swordfish claiming to be XIPHIAS._

_Girls' in their dorms, by my deduction,_

_Have XEROXES for reproduction._

_When in Tibet you spot a YAK,_

_Don't look for Lamas on his back._

_YETI's mentioned in Scamander,_

_But what he says is purest slander._

_The ZEBRA's number one well-wisher_

_Is called Sir Leslie Hore-Belisha._

_Its ups and downs; its smells and looks_

_Make ZAB a hero in the books._

This got a great cheer, as did all the turns.

Afterwards the four Ravenclaws went back to the first-year dorm. They invited Wardy, but he preferred to join his Gryffindor boys: Alan Campbell, Ruairidh McKay, and Gareth Treharne.

Bribery, involving comics, sweetmeats, jokes and cash had induced Graeme Mcalinden, Scott Absalom and Robert Gilchrist to spend the night upstairs, with the second-years Andy Lockie, Gene Fulton, and Ian Scott. _There'll be more action in the average cemetery tonight_ said Tintin.

So the four boys had the place to themselves . . . plus their guests. They had invited fourth-years Martin Murch and Michael Boe; and third-years Ricky Alcock and David Webb.

Dear Eddie Carmichael, the best straight friend of gaydom that ever was, had charmed the House into vaguely thinking that _Something Harmless_ was going on. It _was_ indeed harmless, but not in a way that would have received universal approbation. He had also set up the magical die.

The started by stripping: the die commanded that A remove a garment from B. This was entertaining throughout, but particularly when Tintin was being done: he was in full fig, and the intricacies of female apparel caused much amusement and bemusement. They all had a feel of Tintin's penis—easily the largest present, though a long way short of Tibby's magnificent organ, which had been displayed at the treat—and giggled, not for the first time at the irony: Tintin's sexual yearnings and practices centred on his mouth and anus, so his whopper was fairly redundant.

Then they placed David and Micky together to compare them. Both were gingers, Micky with a copper-coloured bush, and David, still wispy, with an orange that looked startlingly bright against his white skin.

Then it was down to serious business: the die ordained who did what to whom.

First up was Chrissy to shag Ricky.

In practice, Chrissy spent a minute snogging, two minutes fingering Ricky's bottom, and the remaining minute shagging the prone boy.

"That's me lost my front virginity," said Chrissie, "Though I don't know if it counts, as I didn't touch the sides. David Webb, you've been using a _marrow_ instead of your dicky on this unfortunate lady."

Adam watched with pleasure: especially the shagging bit. He felt privileged and proud to be the friend of a boy with such a beautiful bottom.

Next, Mick Boe had to suck Caerwen, who enjoyed it immensely—not so much the sucking, as the one, then two, fingers wiggling in his anus.

Mick Boe had a lovely bottom too, thought Adam; an eleven-year-old bottom on a fourteen-year-old boy.

When time was up, Chrissie asked Mick to sit next to him. Chrissie took Mick's hand and smelt his fingers.

"I was saving that for Peter Jones," said Mick. Peter had been shagging Caerwen for four terms.

Now Adam was on play. He didn't get the feelings yet, but he enjoyed being able to cuddle Martin Murch, while his penis rubbed inside Martin's anus. Martin was a muscular hunk.

"That's my virginity gone west," said Martin, "Whenever I have a shit I'll think of you, Adam."

"And say 'That's one of my better features gone down the pan,' " said Chrissie.

Tintin being sucked by David was another anomalous coupling, which David mitigated with some serious fingerwork inside what Tintin called his _Tunnel of Love_.

David was just beginning to get the feelings. His penis was twitching, and Adam knew that he'd have been happier with fingers and penis reversing their positions.

Now there would be some significant semen flow—very significant for Adam: he was about to taste it for the first time.

He wanted fullest access to Ricky Alcock, so sat on the bed with Ricky standing in front of him. Adam had had a good feel of Martin, but this was the first time that he had been face to face with a grown-up penis.

There was no smell. Wardy had told the Jiggers that smell was important, but all of the boys here tonight seemed to have showered beforehand.

There was no taste either, but he sensed a thrill in Ricky's body: he suspected that Ricky had only ever been with David before.

He sucked and licked Ricky's penis; it felt bigger in his mouth than it looked—though, of course, he had only experienced Gideon's and Chrissie's before tonight. He used that experience in his mouthwork, while squeezing Ricky's buttocks—substantial and firm—a sort of junior Murch-bottom.

His fingers found Ricky's anus, and he had just commenced a probe when, without warning, Ricky had an orgasm. Adam felt hot fluid against his palate. He had promised himself to swallow every drop. as Gideon said a gay boy should always do.

He'd had a bit of a whiff from Gilroy, not wishing to intrude closely on such a self-absorbed loonie, but was totally unprepared for the acridity that filled his mouth and nasal passages.

Bravely, he tried to swallow, but could not help spluttering and coughing—even before the last few drops from Ricky were trickling out. To the delight and cheers of the spectators, he coughed and coughed, globules of semen flying through the air.

When he was well enough to rise, Tintin called him over, but Chrissie claimed squatters rights and engaged Adam in a deep wet kiss.

It was at this moments that Adam experienced his first real spasm of lust—only a tiny spasm, but a sign that he was growing up, and that the Great Day was in sight.

Martin Murch knew what he wanted: some no-nonsense penile pleasure with consequential testicular drainage. He lay on his back, legs apart to allow access to Chrissie, his penis pointing to the ceiling.

Chrissie knelt between the legs, and licked Martin's ball-sack.

"Never mind them," said Martin, "Wrap your lips around my cock!"

Chrissie took the whole of Martin into his mouth. Then he moved his head back and forward rhythmically.

Adam knew that Chrissie was a virtuoso fellator. Even though Adam had no sex-urge, he loved the sensuous, tickling sensations that Chrissie could induce.

So did Martin: he grunted with pleasure, sounding like a pig having its back washed.

As excitement grew, Martin's loins started thrusting. For safety, he placed a hand on Chrissie's head, clamping it firmly in place. The grunts turned to brays: Martin sounded like an elephant, and his body was thumping about like a _herd_ of elephants.

He must be pouring gallons and gallons of semen into Chrissie's mouth, thought Adam, but Chrissie managed to carry on breathing and swallowing

After Martin had finished pumping, and had withdrawn from Chrissie, the younger boy got Martin to turn over.

"A farewell kiss," said Chrissie, and laid his lips on the back of Martin's neck.

After a few seconds, Martin went: "Yow!", but it was too late: there was an enormous love-bite on the back of his neck.

"Harold Holmes must have paid you, Chris," laughed Mick Boe.

There was less for the spectators to enjoy during the next coupling.

_I can't get enough cock!_ Caerwen Morgan used to say. He lay face down, and David Webb, with minimal foreplay, and already in a high state of sexual excitement, gave him a minute's hard shagging. David lay for the remaining three minutes letting it soak—and falling asleep: they were all getting sleepy.

David had an extra-special backside too. Adam wondered sleepily if all redheads were lovely in that way.

There was one more treat: the sight of a world expert shagee dealing with a new conquest.

Tintin lay on his back, with a quarter-turn to one side and one leg flexed at the knee, his man-sized penis pointing at Michael Boe.

"Come on Micky, Dear" he purred, "Show me you're a vigorous, lithe, red-blooded, clean, splendid, pure, fine-spirited boy."

Mick jumped in front of him, with a _Ta-Dah!_

"I'll show you more than that, Tinny," he said, "I'll show you the very finest thing in all the world: a fresh, clean-cut, upstanding, eager-eyed boy, filled to overflowing with physical power and nervous energy, seeking a suitable world to conquer."

"Conquer me! Conquer me!"

Mick lay on top of Tintin. He raised the flexed knee onto his shoulder and leaned forward so they could kiss. Adam could see Mick's thin white penis slipping between Tintin's buttocks.

It was a beautiful, sexy sight—a sight that improved as the tip of Mick's penis, pierced the Ring and entered the Tunnel of Love.

Then Mick Boe—quiet little ginger-minge Micky—was banging into Tintin with cyclonic force, his delectable little bottom working away like a jack-hammer.

There could be no doubt that Mick had fire in his dragon. After half an hour of erotic goings on, he was desperate to get his end away, and now he was loving it. In a short time, he was making whimpering noises, and putting all the power of his fourteen-year-old body into pumping his seed into his mate.

He was clutching Tintin's penis, which was now in prime, seven-inch, form, when he accompanied his final jerks with a shrieking _Yooooooow!_

There was another sound: someone was screaming _Ricky! Yer-Beauty!_

Ricky Alcock was on his knees with David Webb's penis in his mouth.

Someone might have called _Foul!_ but they were all sleepy, and no-one would be able to stay awake for another round.

Bedtime.

They were going to sleep in pairs. Adam and Chrissie was easy; so was David and Ricky; the others needed debate.

They decided squirters should be separated; then Tintin, as senior, claimed Martin for himself, leaving Micky and Caerwen to spend the night together.

Adam had slept with Chrissie before: Chrissie sometimes crept into Adam's bed when he felt lonely or down—even at Hogwarts, life for a girly boy was not always straightforward.

Usually they slept with little connection—an arm flung over a body; a hand cradling a penis. But for this occasion, Gideon manoeuvred them into the tangle of limbs that he had found the closest way of being with a friend while successfully getting to sleep.

It certainly worked this time: Adam went out like a Deluminated flambeau.

He was woken by Tintin's giggles.

The light showed a hint of the midwinter dawn. It was time to get up.

Adam felt a bit achier than was usual when he and Christopher had slept together. His body was being pressed and distorted under a weight that should not be there.

For a moment, his mind dwelt on one of his father's biblical demons, but as he emerged more from sleep, he knew that there were three humans in his bed—and he knew who the third one was.

He found Gideon's lips, and licked them. Tintin giggled again as Gideon opened his eyes.

"Morning, darling," said Gideon.

"Morning," said Adam.

Other boys were murmuring their sleepy morning greetings.

Twice before Adam had been three in a bed. On those occasions, Christopher had slipped in when Gideon was visiting. He wondered whereabouts in Ravenclaw Gideon had spent the early part of the night.

Tintin screamed loudly, the scream dissolving into giggles before another scream took the form of: "Martin!"

Everyone was awake now, and all eyes were on the lovemakers.

Tintin was lying on his back, with his legs wide apart. Martin was chewing on one of Tintin's nipples. He had one hand under Tintin's neck, and the other between his legs, with one finger at least probing Tintin's rectum. Adam hoped for Tintin's sake that Martin had cut his great, claw-like fingernails; especially those thumbs.

As they watched, Martin moved to the other nipple, provoking more giggles. Tintin wriggled with pleasure, and his long, pointy penis swayed like a pine tree in the wind.

"Morning Adam; morning Gideon," came Chrissie's voice, before Chrissie's lips echoed his vocal greetings.

The rest of the dormitory were awake and watching Tintin and Martin.

Adam reached for his glasses.

"Shag him Mart!" called Mick Boe.

"Come and shag _me_, Mart," came Caerwen's singsong Welsh, "It looks like Micky's not going to."

The encouragement had the effect of arousing a rush of desire in Martin, who moved to squat between Tintin's thighs. Before Martin could even _touch_ the boy's legs, Tintin had rolled back, taking his weight on his shoulders, bending his legs so that his bottom was pointing in the same direction as his penis had been two seconds earlier, and ordering Martin to ram it in and bang it hard.

Martin certainly rammed it in, but the banging had a sense of gentleness.

A husky Welsh moan of pleasure drew Adam's gaze to the bed where Mick was rectifying Caerwen's needs.

With hope uprising, Adam looked at the other bed. Yes! David was in the same position as Tintin, and was being mounted by his merry friend Ricky.

Adam clasped his two friends tightly, feeling an overwhelming love for the Universe as he watched the other boys sharing their long, slow, morning copulations.

After the six young testicles had been drained, it was really time to make a move, and the nine happy boys showered together, as full of happiness, fun, affection, playfulness, and farts as anyone could wish.

They were not too full of themselves to forget to thank David Ward.

"Thanks accepted," said Wardy, halfway through his poached egg, "Though Gryffindor thanked me enough for ten houses last night."

Adam asked Gideon what he had done on the previous evening.

"Stayed with Stebbie until midnight," said Gideon.

"I'm surprised you didn't drown."

"He did his best."

Neil Stebbins was a sixth-year, and a notorious big comer. He was reputed to have been the only boy to have caused Danny Jorrocks to cough.

At the last History of Magic lesson, Professor Binns gave his Christmas Lecture, which included discussion of the origin of New Year Resolutions.

"What's yours going to be?" whispered Adam.

"To shag Mr Fay," said Chrissie, "What about you?"

"To be more sexually adventurous."

"I could—"

"No, I'm going to try everything out with Gideon first."

A couple of days later, it was the Hogwarts Express.

"That was the best first term any boy ever had at any school," said Adam, as they pushed their trolleys down Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

"Sheer perfection," said Gideon.

"Now we come to the tricky bit," said Adam, as they approached the barrier.


End file.
